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AUTHOR: 


NIETZSCHE 
WILHELM 


J 


FRIEDRICH 


TITLE: 


THUS  SPAKE 

ZARATHUSTRA 

PLACE: 

NEW  YORK 

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[1917] 


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Also  sprach  Zarathustra. 

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i 


THUS    SPAKE 
ZARATHUSTRA 


By  FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


TRANSLATED  BY  THOMAS  COMMON 


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.  •.      .  :.       NEW  YORK    I 


Printed  in  the 

United  States  of  America 


Reprinted  by  arrangement  with 
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First  printing,  April,  1917 
Second  printing,  Sept,,  1917 


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CONTENTS 


^Introduction  by  Mrs.  Förster-Nietzsche  .     . 
^  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA 


Zarathustra's  Prologue   , 
Zarathustra's  Discourses 


CHÄFTBB 

i. — ^The  Three  Metamorphoses     . 
II. — The  Academic  Chairs  of  Virtue 
III. — Backworldsmen         .... 
IV. — -The  Despisers  of  the  Body 
V. — ^Joys  and  Passions   .... 
VI. — The  Pale  Criminal  .... 
VII. — 'Reading  and  Writing    . 
VIII.— The  Tree  on  the  Hill  .     .     . 
IX.-^The  Preachers  of  Death    .     . 
X.— 'War  and  Warriors  .... 

XI.— The  New  Idol 

XII. — The  Flies  in  the  Market-place 

XIII. — Chastity 

XIV. — The  Friend 

XV. — The  Thousand  and  One  Goals 

XVI. — Neighbour-Love       .... 

XVII.— The  ;Way  of  the  Creating  One 

XVIII.— Old  and  Young  Women     .     . 

XIX.— The  Bite  of  the  Adder  .     .     . 

XX. — Child  and  Marriage      .     .     . 

5 


PAQU 

9 


25 

41 

43 

45 

47 

50 

52 

54 

56 

57 
60 

62 

64 
66 
69 
70 
72 

75 
76 

79 
81 

83 


r-r- 


m will -TT Mia» 


6  CONTENTS 

Zarathustra's  Discourses — Continued. 

CHAPTER 

XXI. — ^Voluntary   Death     ,     . 
XXII. — The  Bestowing  Virtue 


w 


;•: 


XXIIL- 

XXIV.- 

XXV.- 

XXVI.- 

XXVIL- 

XXVIII.- 

XXIX.- 

XXX.- 

XXXI.- 

XXXII.- 

XXXIII.- 

XXXIV.- 

XXXV.- 

XXXVI.- 

XXXVII.- 

XXXVIII.- 

XXXIX.- 

XL.- 

XLI.- 

XLIL- 

XLIII.- 

XLIV.^ 


•1 


«) 


XLV.- 

XLVI.- 

XLVII.. 

XLVIII.- 

XLIX.- 

L.- 


SECOND  PART 

—The  Child  with  the  Mirror 

—In  the  Happy  Isles 

-The  Pitiful    . 

—The  Priests    . 

—The  Virtuous 

-The  Rabble    . 

-The  Tarantulas 

-The  Famous  Wise  Ones 

-The  Night-Song 

-The  Dance-Song 

-The  Grave-Song 

-Self-Surpassing 

-The  Sublime  Ones 

-The  Land  of  Culture 

-Immaculate  Perception 

-Scholars    .     . 

-Poets   .     .     . 

-Great  Events 

-The  Soothsayer 

-Redemption    . 

-Manly  Prudence      .     ,     .^ 

-The  Stillest  Hour 

THIRD  PART 

■The  Wanderer    .... 
-The  Vision  and  the  Enigma 
-Involuntary  Bliss     . 
-Before  Sunrise  .... 
-The  Bedwarfing  Virtue     . 
■On  the  Olive-Mount     .     . 


.■•1 


>i      l< 


••1 


PA6B 

85 
88 


95 
97 

100 

103 

105 
108 

III 

114 

117 

119 

121 

124 

127 

130 

132 

135 

140 
144 

147 
152 

155 


161 
164 
169 
172 

175 
180 


CONTENTS  y 

Zarathustra's  Discourses— Continued. 

CHAPTER  p^^,g 

LI. — On  Passing-by    ........  183 

LII. — The  Apostates 186 

LIII. — The  Return  Home igo 

LIV.— The  Three  Evil  Things     .....'  194 

LV. — The  Spirit  of  Gravity 198 

LVI.— Old  and  New  Tables 202 

LVII. — The  Convalescent 221 

LVIII. — The  Great  Longing 227 

LIX. — The  Second  Dance-Song 229 

LX. — The  Seven  Seals .  233 


LXL- 

LXIL- 

LXIIL- 

LXIV.- 

LXV.- 

LXVL- 

LXVIL- 

LXVIIL- 

LXIX.- 

LXX.- 

LXXL- 

LXXIL- 

LXXIIL- 

LXXIV.- 

—  LXXV.- 

LXXVL- 

LXXVIL- 

LXXVIIL- 

LXXIX.- 

LXXX.- 


FOURTH  AND  LAST  PART 

-The  Honey  Sacrifice 239 

-The  Cry  of  Distress     ......  242 

-Talk  with  the  Kings     .     .     .     .     .     ,  245 

-The  Leech     ..........  249 

-The  Magician 252 

-Out  of  Service 259 

-The  Ugliest  Man 263 

-The  Voluntary  Beggar 268 

-The  Shadow 272 

-Noon-Tide 275 

-The  Greeting 278 

-The  Supper 283 

-The  Higher  Man 285 

-The  Song  of  Melancholy 295 

-Science 299 

-Among  Daughters  of  the  Desert  .     .     .  302 

-The  Awakening 308 

-The  Ass- Festival     . 311 

-The  Drunken  Song 314 

-The  Sign       ....     .3    ,     .     .     .  322 


I- 


INTRODUCTION 


By  Mrs.  Förster-Nietzsche 


) 


HOW  ZARATHUSTRA  CAME  INTO  BEING 

"Zarathustra"  is  my  brother's  most  personal  work;  it  is 
the  history  of  his  most  individual  experiences,  of  his  friend- 
ships, ideals,  raptures,  bitterest  disappointments  and  sor- 
rows. Above  it  all,  however,  there  soars,  transfiguring  it, 
the  image  of  his  greatest  hopes  and  remotest  aims.  My 
brother  had  the  figure  of  Zarathustra  in  his  mind  from 
his  very  earliest  youth:  he  once  told  me  that  even  as  a 
child  he  had  dreamt  of  him.  At  different  periods  in  his 
life,  he  would  call  this  haunter  of  his  dreams  by  different 
names;  "but  in  the  end,"  he  declares  in  a  note  on  the  sub- 
ject, "I  had  to  do  a  Persian  the  honour  of  identifying  him 
with  this  creature  of  my  fancy.'  Persians  were  the  first 
to  take  a  broad  and  comprehensive  view  of  history.  Every 
series  of  evolutions,  according  to  them,  was  presided  over 
by  a  prophet;  and  every  prophet  had  his  'Hazar/ — ^his 
dynasty  of  a  thousand  years." 

All  Zarathustra's  views,  as  also  his  personality,  were  early, 
conceptions  of  my  brother's  mind.  Whoever  reads  his 
posthumously  published  writings  for  the  years  1869-82  with 
care,  will  constantly  meet  with  passages  suggestive  of 
Zarathustra's  thoughts  and  doctrines.  For  instance,  the 
ideal  of  the  Superman  is  put  forth  quite  clearly  in  all  his 
writings  during  the  years  1873-75;  and  in  "We  Philologists," 
the  following  remarkable  observations  occur: — 

"How  can  one  praise  and  glorify  a  nation  as  a  whole? — 
Even  among  the  Greeks,  it  was  the  individuals  that  cotmted." 

"The  Greeks  are  interesting  and  extremely  important 


10 


INTRODUCTION 


because  they  reared  such  a  vast  number  of  great  indi- 
viduals. How  was  this  possible?  The  question  is  one 
which  ought  to  be  studied. 

"I  am  interested  only  in  the  relations  of  a  people  to 
the  rearing  of  the  individual  man,  and  among  the  Greeks 
the  conditions  were  unusually  favourable  for  the  devel- 
opment of  the  individual;  not  by  any  means  owing  to  the 
goodness  of  the  people,  but  because  of  the  struggles  of 
their  evil  instincts. 

''With  the  help  of  favourable  measures  great  individuals 
might  be  reared  who  would  be  both  different  from  and 
higher  than  those  who  heretofore  have  owed  their  existence 
to  mere  chance.  Here  we  may  still  be  hopeful:  in  the  rear- 
ing of  exceptional  men." 

The  notion  of  rearing  the  Superman  is  only  a  new  form 
of  an  ideal  Nietzsche  already  had  in  his  youth,  that  ''the 
object  of  mankind  should  lie  in  its  highest  individuals^  (or, 
as  he  writes  in  "Schopenhauer  as  Educator":  "Mankind 
ought  constantly  to  be  striving  to  produce  great  men — 
this  and  nothing  else  is  its  duty.")  But  the  ideals  he  most 
revered  in  those  days  are  no  longer  held  to  be  the  highest 
types  of  men.  No,  around  this  future  ideal  of  a  coming 
humanity — the  Superman — the  poet  spread  the  veil  of 
becoming.  Who  can  tell  to  what  glorious  heights  man  can 
still  ascend?  That  is  why,  after  having  tested  the  worth 
of  our  noblest  ideal— that  of  the  Saviour,  in  the  light  of 
the  new  valuations,  the  poet  cries  with  passionate  emphasis 
in  "Zarathustra": 

"Never  yet  hath  there  been  a  Superman.  Naked  have 
I  seen  both  of  them,  the  greatest  and  the  smallest  man: — 

"All-too-similar  are  they  still  to  each  other.  Verily  even 
the  greatest  found  I — all-too-human!" — 

The  phrase  "the  rearing  of  the  Superman,"  has  very 
often  been  misunderstood.  By  the  word  "rearing,"  in  this 
case,  is  meant  the  act  of  modifying  by  means  of  new  and 
higher  values — ^values  which,  as  laws  and  guides  of  con- 
duct and  opinion,  are  now  to  rule  over  mankind.  In  gen- 
eral the  doctrine  of  the  Superman  can  only  be  understood 
correctly  in  conjunction  with  other  ideas  of  the  author's, 
such  as:— the  Order  of  Rank,  the  Will  to  Power,  and  the 


INTRODUCTION 


II 


' 


I 


Transvaluation  of  all  Values.  He  assumes  that  Christianity, 
as  a  product  of  the  resentment  of  the  botched  and  the 
weak,  has  put  in  ban  all  that  is  beautiful,  strong,  proud, 
and  powerful,  in  fact  all  the  qualities  resulting  from  strength, 
and  that,  in  consequence,  all  forces  which  tend  to  promote 
or  elevate  life  have  been  seriously  undermined.  Now,  how- 
ever, a  new  table  of  valuations  must  be  placed  over  man- 
kind— ^namely,  that  of  the  strong,  mighty,  and  magnificent 
man,  overflowing  with  life  and  elevated  to  his  zenith — the 
Superman,  who  is  now  put  before  us  with  overpowering  pas- 
sion as  the  aim  of  our  life,  hope,  and  will.  And  just  as  the 
old  system  of  valuing,  which  only  extolled  the  qualities 
favourable  to  the  weak,  the  suffering,  and  the  oppressed, 
has  succeeded  in  producing  a  weak,  suffering,  and  "modem" 
race,  so  this  new  and  reversed  system  of  valuing  ought  to 
rear  a  healthy,  strong,  lively,  and  courageous  type,  which 
would  be  a  glory  to  life  itself.  Stated  briefly,  the  leading 
principle  of  this  new  system  of  valuing  would  be:  "All  that 
proceeds  from  power  is  good,  all  that  springs  from  weakness 
is  bad." 

This  type  must  not  be  regarded  as  a  fanciful  figure:  it 
is  not  a  nebulous  hope  which  is  to  be  realised  at  some  in- 
definitely remote  period,  thousands  of  years  hence;  nor 
is  it  a  new  species  (in  Üie  Darwinian  sense)  of  which  we 
can  know  nothing,  and  which  it  would  therefore  be  some- 
what absurd  to  strive  after.  But  it  is  meant  to  be  a  pos- 
sibility which  men  of  the  present  could  realise  with  all  their 
spiritual  and  physical  energies,  provided  they  adopted  the 
new  values. 

The  author  of  "Zarathustra"  never  lost  sight  of  that 
egregious  example  of  a  transvaluation  of  all  values  through 
Christianity,  whereby  the  whole  of  the  deified  mode  of 
life  and  thought  of  the  Greeks,  as  well  as  strong  Romedom, 
was  almost  annihilated  or  transvalued  in  a  comparatively 
short  time.  Could  not  a  rejuvenated  Graeco-Roman  system 
of  valuing  (once  it  had  been  refined  and  made  more  pro- 
found by  the  schooling  which  two  thousand  years  of  Chris- 
tianity had  provided)  effect  another  such  revolution  within 
a  calculable  period  of  time,  until  that  glorious  type  of  man- 
hood shall  finally  appear  which  is  to  be  our  new  faith  and 


12 


INTRODUCTION 


INTRODUCTION 


13 


hope,  and  in  the  creation  of  which  Zarathustra  exhorts  us 
to  participate? 

In  his  private  notes  on  the  subject  the  author  uses  the 
expression  "Superman"  (always  in  the  singular,  by-the-bye) ,' 
as  signifying  "the  most  thoroughly  well-constituted  type," 
as  opposed  to  "modem  man";  above  all,  however,  he  desig- 
nates Zarathustra  himself  as  an  example  of  the  Superman. 
In  "Ecce  Homo"  he  is  careful  to  enlighten  us  concerning 
the  precursors  and  prerequisites  to  the  advent  of  this  high- 
est type,  in  referring  to  a  certain  passage  in  the  "Gay 
Science": — 

"In  order  to  understand  this  type,  we  must  first  be  quite 
clear  in  regard  to  the  leading  physiological  condition  on 
which  it  depends:  this  condition  is  what  I  call  great  healthi- 
ness. I  know  not  how  to  express  my  meaning  more  plainly 
or  more  personally  than  I  have  done  already  in  one  of 
the  last  chapters  (Aphorism  382)  of  the  fifth  book  of  the 
*Gaya  Scienza.' " 

"We,  the  new,  the  nameless,  the  hard-to-understand," — it  says 
there, — "we  firstlings  of  a  yet  untried  future — we  require  for  a 
new  end  also  a  new  means,  namely,  a  new  healthiness,  stronger, 
sharper,  tougher,  bolder  and  merrier  than  all  healthiness  hitherto. 
He  whose  soul  longeth  to  experience  the  whole  range  of  hitherto 
recognised  values  and  desirabilities,  and  to  circumnavigate  all 
the  coasts  of  this  ideal  'Mediterranean  Sea,'  who,  from  the  ad- 
ventures of  his  most  personal  experience,  wants  to  know  how  it 
feels  to  be  a  conqueror,  and  discoverer  of  the  ideal — as  likewise 
how  it  is  with  the  artist,  the  saint,  the  legislator,  the  sage,  the 
scholar,  the  devotee,  the  prophet,  and  the  godly  non-conformist 
of  the  old  style: — requires  one  thing  above  all  for  that  purpose, 
great  healthiness — such  healthiness  as  one  not  only  possesses,  but 
also  constantly  acquires  and  must  acquire,  because  one  unceas- 
ingly sacrifices  it  again,  and  must  sacrifice  it! — And  now,  after 
having  been  long  on  the  way  in  this  fashion,  we  Argonauts  of 
the  ideal,  more  courageous  perhaps  than  prudent,  and  often 
enough  shipwrecked  and  brought  to  grief,  nevertheless  danger- 
ously healthy,  always  healthy  again, — it  would  seem  as  if,  in 
recompense  for  it  all,  that  we  have  a  still  undiscovered  country 
before  us,  the  boundaries  of  which  no  one  has  yet  seen,  a  beyond 
to  all  countries  and  corners  of  the  ideal  known  hitherto,  a  world 
so  over-rich  in  the  beautiful,  the  strange,  the  Questionable,  the 
frightful,  and  the  divine,  that  our  curiosity  as  weU  as  our  thirst 
for  possession  thereof,  have  got  out  of  hand — ^alas  I  that  nothing 
will  now  any  longer  satisfy  us ! — 


I* 


"How  could  we  still  be  content  with  the  man  of  the  present 
day  after  such  outlooks,  and  with  such  a  craving  in  our  con- 
science and  consciousness?  Sad  enough;  but  it  is  unavoidable 
that  we  should  look  on  the  worthiest  aims  and  hopes  of  the  man 
of  the  present  day  with  ill-concealed  amusement,  and  perhaps 
should  no  longer  look  at  them.  Another  ideal  runs  on  before  us, 
a  strange,  tempting  ideal  full  of  danger,  to  which  we  should  not 
like  to  persuade  any  one,  because  we  do  not  so  readily  acknowl- 
edge any  one's  right  thereto:  the  ideal  of  a  spirit  who  plays 
naively  (that  is  to  say  involuntarily  and  from  overflowing  abun- 
dance and  power)  with  everything  that  has  hitherto  been  called 
holy,  good,  intangible,  or  divine ;  to  whom  the  loftiest  conception 
which  the  people  have  reasonably  made  their  measure  of  value, 
would  already  practically  imply  danger,  ruin,  abasement,  or  at 
least  relaxation,  blindness,  or  temporary  self -f orgetf ulness ;  the 
ideal  of  a  humanly  superhuman  welfare  and  benevolence,  which 
will  often  enough  appear  inhuman,  for  example,  when  put  along- 
side of  all  past  seriousness  on  earth,  and  alongside  of  all  past 
solemnities  in  bearing,  word,  tone,  look,  morality,  and  pursuit, 
as  their  truest  involuntary  parody — and  with  which,  nevertheless, 
perhaps  the  great  seriousness  only  commences,  when  the  proper 
interrogative  mark  is  set  up,  the  fate  of  the  soul  changes,  the 
hour-hand  moves,  and  tragedy  begins.  .  .  ." 

Although  the  figure  of  Zarathustra  and  a  large  number 
of  the  leading  thoughts  in  this  work  had  appeared  much 
earlier  in  the  dreams  and  writings  of  the  author,  "Thus 
Spake  Zarathustra"  did  not  actually  come  into  being  until 
the  month  of  August  1881  in  Sils  Maria;  and  it  was  the 
idea  of  the  Eternal  Recurrence  of  all  things  which  finally 
induced  my  brother  to  set  forth  his  new  views  in  poetic 
language.  In  regard  to  his  first  conception  of  this  idea, 
his  autobiographical  sketch,  "Ecce  Homo,"  written  in  the 
autumn  of  1888,  contains  the  following  passage: — 

"The  fundamental  idea  of  my  work — ^namely,  the  Eternal 
Recurrence  of  all  things — this  highest  of  all  possible  for- 
mulae of  a  Yea-saying  philosophy,  first  occurred  to  me  in 
August  1 88 1.  I  made  a  note  of  the  thought  on  a  sheet 
of  paper,  with  the  postscript:  6,000  feet  beyond  men  and 
time!  That  day  I  happened  to  be  wandering  through  the 
woods  alongside  of  the  lake  of  Silvaplana,  and  I  halted  be- 
side a  huge,  pyramidal  and  towering  rock  not  far  from 
Surlei.  It  was  then  that  the  thought  struck  me.  Looking 
back  now,  I  find  that  exactly  two  months  previous  to  this 
inspiration,  I  had  had  an  omen  of  its  coming  in  the  form 


1^\ 


14 


INTRODUCTION 


II 


of  a  sudden  and  decisive  alteration  in  my  tastes — ^more  par- 
ticularly in  music.  It  would  even  be  possible  to  consider  all 
^Zarathustra'  as  a  musical  composition.  At  all  events,  a 
very  necessary  condition  in  its  production  was  a  renaissance 
in  myself  of  the  art  of  hearing.  In  a  small  mountain  resort 
(Recoaro)  near  Vicenza,  where  I  spent  the  spring  of  188 1, 
I  and  my  friend  and  Maestro,  Peter  Gast — also  one  who 
had  been  born  again — discovered  that  the  phoenix  music 
that  hovered  over  us,  wore  lighter  and  brighter  plumes  than 
it  had  done  theretofore." 

During  the  month  of  August  1881  my  brother  resolved 
to  reyeal  the  teaching  of  the  Eternal  Recurrence,  in  dithy- 
rambic  and  psalmodic  form,  through  the  mouth  of  Zara- 
thustra.  Among  the  notes  of  this  period,  we  found  a  page 
on  which  is  written  the  first  definite  plan  of  "Thus  Spake 
Zarathustra": — 


''Midday  and  Eternity." 
"Guide-Posts  to  a  New  Way  of  Living." 
Beneath  this  is  written: — 

*'Zarathustra  born  on  lake  Urmi ;  left  his  home  in  his  thirtieth 
year;  went  into  the  province  of  Aria,  and,  during  ten  years  of 
solitude  in  the  mountains,  composed  the  Zend-Avesta." 

"The  sun  of  knowledge  stands  once  more  at  midday;  and  the 

serpent  of  eternity  lies  coiled  in  its  light :    It  is  your  time, 

ye  midday  brethren." 

In  that  summer  of  1881,  my  brother,  after  many  years 
of  steadily  declining  health,  began  at  last  to  rally,  and  it  is 
to  this  first  gush  of  the  recovery  of  his  once  splendid  bodily 
condition  that  we  owe  not  only  "The  Gay  Science,''  which 
in  its  mood  may  be  regarded  as  a  prelude  to  "Zarathustra," 
but  also  "Zarathustra"  itself.  Just  as  he  was  beginning  to 
recuperate  his  health,  however,  an  unkind  destiny  brought 
him  a  number  of  most  painful  personal  experiences.  His 
friends  caused  him  many  disappointments,  which  were  the 
more  bitter  to  him,  inasmuch  as  he  regarded  friendship  as 


INTRODUCTION 


IS 


such  a  sacred  institution;  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life 
he  realised  the  whole  horror  of  that  loneliness  to  which, 
perhaps,  all  greatness  is  condemned.  But  to  be  forsaken 
is  something  very  different  from  deliberately  choosing 
blessed  loneliness.  How  he  longed,  in  those  days,  for  the 
ideal  friend  who  would  thoroughly  understand  him,  to  whom 
he  would  be  able  to  say  all,  and  whom  he  imagined  he 
had  found  at  various  periods  in  his  life  from  his  earliest 
youth  onwards.  Now,  however,  that  the  way  he  had  chosen 
grew  ever  more  perilous  and  steep,  he  found  nobody  who 
could  follow  him:  he  therefore  created  a  perfect  friend  for 
himself  in  the  ideal  form  of  a  majestic  philosopher,  and 
made  this  creation  the  preacher  of  his  gospel  to  the  world. 

Whether  my  brother  would  ever  have  written  "Thus 
Spake  Zarathustra"  according  to  the  first  plan  sketched  in 
the  summer  of  1 881,  if  he  had  not  had  the  disappointments 
already  referred  to,  is  now  an  idle  question;  but  perhaps 
where  "Zarathustra"  is  concerned,  we  may  also  say  with 
Master  Eckhardt:  "The  fleetest  beast  to  bear  you  to  per- 
fection is  suffering." 

My  brother  writes  as  follows  about  the  origin  of  the 
first  part  of  "Zarathustra":— "In  the  winter  of  1882-83, 
I  was  living  on  the  charming  little  Gulf  of  Rapallo,  not  far 
from  Genoa,  and  between  Chiavari  and  Cape  Porto  Fino. 
My  health  was  not  very  good;  the  winter  was  cold  and 
exceptionally  rainy;  and  the  small  inn  in  which  I  lived 
was  so  close  to  the  water  that  at  night  my  sleep  would  be 
disturbed  if  the  sea  were  high.  These  circumstances  were 
surely  the  very  reverse  of  favourable;  and  yet  in  spite  of 
it  all,  and  as  if  in  demonstration  of  my  belief  that  every- 
thing decisive  comes  to  life  in  spite  of  every  obstacle,  it 
was  precisely  during  this  winter  and  in  the  midst  of  these 
unfavourable  circumstances  that  my  ^Zarathustra'  originated. 
In.  the  morning  I  used  to  start  out  in  a  southerly  direction 
up  the  glorious  road  to  Zoagli,  which  rises  aloft  through 
a  forest  of  pines  and  gives  one  a  view  far  out  into  the 
sea.  In  the  afternoon,  as  often  as  my  health  permitted,  I 
walked  round  the  whole  bay  from  Santa  Margherita  to  be- 
yond Porto  Fino.  This  spot  was  all  the  more  interesting 
to  me,  inasmuch  as  it  was  so  dearly  loved  by  the  Em- 


i6 


INTRODUCTION 


INTRODUCTION 


17 


1 


ii! 
Ill 


;tt 


peror  Frederick  III.  In  the  autumn  of  1886  I  chanced  to 
be  there  again  when  he  was  revisiting  this  small,  forgotten 
world  of  happiness  for  the  last  time.  It  was  on  these  two 
roads  that  all  'Zarathustra'  came  to  me,  above  all  Zara- 
thustra  himself  as  a  type; — I  ought  ra±er  to  say  that  it 
was  on  these  walks  that  these  ideas  waylaid  me." 

The  first  part  of  "Zarathustra"  was  written  in  about  ten 
days — that  is  to  say,  from  the  beginning  to  about  the  mid- 
dle of  February  1883.  "The  last  lines  were  written  precisely 
in  the  hallowed  hour  when  Richard  Wagner  gave  up  the 
ghost  in  Venice." 

With  the  exception  of  the  ten  days  occupied  in  composing 
the  first  part  of  this  book,  my  brother  often  referred  to 
this  winter  as  the  hardest  and  sickliest  he  had  ever  experi- 
enced. He  did  not,  however,  mean  thereby  that  his  former 
disorders  were  troubling  him,  but  that  he  was  suffering  from 
a  severe  attack  of  influenza  which  he  had  caught  in  Santa 
Margherita,  and  which  tormented  him  for  several  weeks 
after  his  arrival  in  Genoa.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  however, 
what  he  complained  of  most  was  his  spiritual  CQpdition — 
that  indescribable  forsakenness — to  which  he  gives  such 
heartrending  expression  in  "Zarathustra."  Even  the  re- 
ception which  the  first  part  met  with  at  the  hands  of  friends 
and  acquaintances  was  extremely  disheartening:  for  almost 
all  those  to  whom  he  presented  copies  of  the  work  mis- 
understood it.  "I  found  no  one  ripe  for  many  of  my 
thoughts ;  the  case  of  'Zarathustra'  proves  that  one  can  speak 
with  the  utmost  clearness,  and  yet  not  be  heard  by  any 
one."  My  brother  was  very  much  discouraged  by  the  fee- 
bleness of  the  response  he  was  given,  and  as  he  was  striv- 
ing just  then  to  give  up  the  practice  of  taking  hydrate  of 
chloral — a  drug  he  had  begun  to  take  while  ill  with  in- 
fluenza,— the  following  spring,  spent  in  Rome,  was  a  some- 
what gloomy  one  for  him.  He  writes  about  it  as  follows: — 
"I  spent  a  melancholy  spring  in  Rome,  where  I  only  just 
managed  to  live, — and  this  was  no  easy  matter.  This  city, 
which  is  absolutely  unsuited  to  the  poet-author  of  *Zara- 
thustra,'  and  for  the  choice  of  which  I  was  not  responsible, 
made  me  inordinately  miserable.  I  tried  to  leave  it.  I 
wanted  to  go  to  Aquila — the  opposite  of  Rome  in  every 


I 


respect,  and  actually  foimded  in  a  spirit  of  enmity  towards 
that  city  (just  as  I  also  shall  foimd  a  city  some  day),  as 
a  memento  of  an  atheist  and  genuine  enemy  of  the  Church 
— a  person  very  closely  related  to  me, — the  great  Hohen- 
staufen,  the  Emperor  Frederick  II.  But  Fate  lay  behind  it 
all:  I  had  to  return  again  to  Rome.  In  the  end  I  was 
obliged  to  be  satisfied  with  the  Piazza  Barberini,  after  I 
had  exerted  myself  in  vain  to  find  an  anti-Christian  quarter. 
I  fear  that  on  one  occasion,  to  avoid  bad  smells  as  much 
as  possible,  I  actually  inquired  at  the  Palazzo  del  Quirinale 
whether  they  could  not  provide  a  quiet  room  for  a  phi- 
losopher. In  a  chamber  high  above  the  Piazza  just  men- 
tioned, from  which  one  obtained  a  general  view  of  Rome 
and  could  hear  the  fountains  plashing  far  below,  the  lone- 
liest of  all  songs  was  composed — ^'The  Night-Song.'  About 
this  time  I  was  obsessed  by  an  unspeakably  sad  melody, 
the  refrain  of  which  I  recognised  in  the  words,  'dead  through 
immortality.' " 

We  remained  somewhat  too  long  in  Rome  that  spring, 
and  what  with  the  effect  of  the  increasing  heat  and  the 
discouraging  circumstances  already  described,  my  brother 
resolved  not  to  write  any  more,  or  in  any  case,  not  to  pro- 
ceed with  "Zarathustra,"  although  I  offered  to  relieve  him 
of  all  trouble  in  connection  with  the  proofs  and  the  pub- 
lisher. When,  however,  we  returned  to  Switzerland  towards 
the  end  of  June,  and  he  found  himself  once  more  in  the 
familiar  and  exhilarating  air  of  the  mountains,  all  his  joyous 
creative  powers  revived,  and  in  a  note  to  me  announcing  the 
dispatch  of  some  manuscript,  he  wrote  as  follows:  "I  have 
engaged  a  place  here  for  three  months:  forsooth,  I  am  the 
greatest  fool  to  allow  my  courage  to  be  sapped  from  me  by 
the  climate  of  Italy.  Now  and  again  I  am  troubled  by  the 
thought:  what  next?  My  *  future'  is  the  darkest  thing  in  the 
world  to  me,  but  as  there  still  remains  a  great  deal  for  me 
to  do,  I  suppose  I  ought  rather  to  think  of  doing  this  than 
of  my  future,  and  leave  the  rest  to  thee  and  the  gods." 

The  second  part  of  "Zarathustra"  was  written  between 
the  26th  of  June  and  the  6th  July.  "This  summer,  finding 
myself  once  more  in  the  sacred  place  where  the  first  thought 
of  ^Zarathustra'  flashed  across  my  mind,  I  conceived  the 


\^      i8 


INTRODUCTION 


second  part.    Tto  days  sufficed.    Neither  for  the  second^ 
the  first,  nor  the  third  part,  have  I  required  a  day  longer." 

He  often  used  to  speak  of  the  ecstatic  mood  in  which  he 
wrote  "Zarathustra";  how  in  his  walks  over  hill  and  dale  the 
ideas  would  crowd  into  his  mind,  and  how  he  would  note 
them  down  hastily  in  a  note-book  from  which  he  would 
transcribe  them  on  his  return,  sometimes  working  till  mid- 
night. He  says  in  a  letter  to  me:  "You  can  have  ilo  idea 
of  the  vehemence  of  such  composition,"  and  in  "Ecce  Homo" 
(autumn  1888)  he  describes  as  follows  with  passionate  en- 
thusiasm the  incomparable  mood  in  which  he  created  Zara- 
thustra: — 

" — Has  any  one  at  the  end  of  the  nineteenth  century  any 
distinct  notion  of  what  poets  of  a  stronger  age  understood 
by  the  word  inspiration?  If  not,  I  will  describe  it.  If  one 
had  the  smallest  vestige  of  superstition  in  one,  it  would 
hardly  be  possible  to  set  aside  completely  the  idea  that  one 
is  the  mere  incarnation,  mouthpiece  or  medium  of  an  al- 
mighty power.  The  idea  of  revelation  in  the  sense  that 
something  becomes  suddenly  visible  and  audible  with  inde- 
scribable certainty  and  accuracy,  which  profoundly  con- 
vulses and  upsets  one — describes  simply  the  matter  of  fact. 
One  hears — one  does  not  seek;  one  takes — one  does  not  ask 
who  gives:  a  thought  suddenly  flashes  up  like  lightning,  it 
comes  with  necessity,  unhesitatingly — I  have  never  had  any 
choice  in  the  matter.  There  is  an  ecstasv  such  that  the  im- 
mense strain  of  it  is  sometimes  relaxed  by  a  flood  of  tears, 
along  with  which  one's  steps  either  rush  or  involuntarily  lag, 
alternately.  There  is  the  feeling  that  one  is  completely  out 
of  hand,  with  the  very  distinct  consciousness  of  an  endless 
number  of  fine  thrills  and  quiverings  to  the  very  toes; — 
there  is  a  depth  of  happiness  in  which  the  painfuUest  and 
gloomiest  do  not  operate  as  antitheses,  but  as  conditioned,  as 
demanded  in  the  sense  of  necessary  shades  of  colour  in  such 
an  overflow  of  light.  There  is  an  instinct  for  rhythmic 
relations  which  embraces  wide  areas  of  forms  (length,  the 
need  of  a  wide-embracing  rhythm,  is  almost  the  measure  of 
the  force  of  an  inspiration,  a  sort  of  counterpart  to  its  pres- 
sure and  tension).  Everything  happens  quite  involuntarily, 
as  if  in  a  tempestuous  outburst  of  freedom,  of  absoluteness, 


INTRODUCTION 


' 


r^ 


1^ 


19 


of  power  and  divinity.  The  involuntariness  of  the  figures 
and  similes  is  the  most  remarkable  thing;  one  loses  all  per- 
ception of  what  constitutes  the  figure  and  what  constitutes 
the  simile ;  everything  seems  to  present  itself  as  the  readiest, 
the  correctest  and  the  simplest  means  of  expression.  It 
actually  seems,  to  use  one  of  Zarathustra's  own  phrases,  as  if 
all  things  came  unto  one,  and  would  fain  be  similes:  *Here 
do  all  things  come  caressingly  to  thy  talk  and  flatter  thee, 
for  they  want  to  ride  upon  thy  back.  On  every  simile  dost 
thou  here  ride  to  every  truth.  Here  fly  open  unto  thee  all 
being's  words  and  word-cabinets;  here  all  being  wanteth 
to  become  words,  here  all  becoming  wanteth  to  learn  of  thee 
how  to  talk.'  This  is  my  experience  of  inspiration.  I  do 
not  doubt  but  that  one  would  have  to  go  back  thousands  of 
years  in  order  to  find  some  one  who  could  say  to  me:  It 
is  mine  also! — " 

In  the  autumn  of  1883  my  brother  left  the  Engadine  for 
Germany  and  stayed  there  a  few  weeks.  In  the  following 
winter,  after  wandering  somewhat  erratically  through  Stresa, 
Genoa,  and  Spezia,  he  landed  in  Nice,  where  the  climate  so 
happily  promoted  his  creative  powers  that  he  wrote  the  third 
part  of  "Zarathustra."  "In  the  winter,  beneath  the  halcyon 
sky  of  Nice,  which  then  looked  down  upon  me  for  the  first 
time  in  my  life,  I  found  the  third  ^Zarathustra' — and  came 
to  the  end  of  my  task;  the  whole  having  occupied  me 
scarcely  a  year.  Many  hidden  comers  and  heights  in  the 
landscapes  round  about  Nice  are  hallowed  to  me  by  unfor- 
gettable moments.  That  decisive  chapter  entitled  ^Old  and 
New  Tables'  was  composed  in  the  very  difficult  ascent  from 
the  station  to  Eza — that  wonderful  Moorish  village  in  the 
rocks.  My  most  creative  moments  were  always  accompanied 
by  unusual  muscular  activity.  The  body  is  inspired:  let  us 
waive  the  question  of  the  *soul.'  I  might  often  have  been 
seen  dancing  in  those  days.  Without  a  suggestion  of  fatigue 
I  could  then  walk  for  seven  or  eight  hours  on  end  among  the 
hills.  I  slept  well  and  laughed  well — I  was  perfectly  robust 
and  patient." 

As  we  have  seen,  each  of  the  three  parts  of  "Zarathustra" 
was  written,  after  a  more  or  less  short  period  of  preparation, 
in  about  ten  days.    The  composition  of  the  fourth  part  alone 


20 


INTRODUCTION 


INTRODUCTION 


21 


was  broken  by  occasional  interruptions.  The  first  notes 
relating  to  this  part  were  written  while  he  and  I  were  stay- 
ing together  in  Zurich  in  September  1884.  In  the  following 
November,  while  staying  at  Mentone,  he  began  to  elaborate 
these  notes,  and  after  a  long  pause,  finished  the  manuscript 
at  Nice  between  the  end  of  January  and  the  middle  of 
February  1885.  My  brother  then  called  this  part  the  fourth 
and  last;  but  even  before,  and  shortly  after  it  had  been 
privately  printed,  he  wrote  to  me  saying  that  he  still  in- 
tended writing  a  fifth  and  sixth  part,  and  notes  relating  td 
these  parts  are  now  in  my  possession.  This  fourth  part  (the 
original  MS.  of  which  contains  this  note:  "Only  for  my 
friends,  not  for  the  public")  is  written  in  a  particularly  per- 
sonal spirit,  and  those  few  to  whom  he  presented  a  copy  of 
it,  he  pledged  to  the  strictest  secrecy  concerning  its  contents. 
He  often  thought  of  making  this  fourth  part  public  also,  but 
doubted  whether  he  would  ever  be  able  to  do  so  without  con- 
siderably altering  certain  portions  of  it.  At  all  events  he 
resolved  to  distribute  this  manuscript  production,  of  which 
only  forty  copies  were  printed,  only  among  those  who  had 
proved  themselves  worthy  of  it,  and  it  speaks  eloquently  of 
his  utter  loneliness  and  need  of  sympathy  in  those  days,  that 
he  had  occasion  to  present  only  seven  copies  of  his  book 
according  to  this  resolution. 

Already  at  the  beginning  of  this  history  I  hinted  at  the 
reasons  which  led  my  brother  to  select  a  Persian  as  the  in- 
carnation of  his  ideal  of  the  majestic  philosopher.  His  rea- 
sons, however,  for  choosing  Zarathustra  of  all  others  to  be  his 
mouthpiece,  he  gives  us  in  the  following  words: — ^^Teople 
have  never  asked  me,  as  they  should  have  done,  what  the 
name  Zarathustra  precisely  means  in  my  mouth,  in  the 
mouth  of  the  first  Immoralist;  for  what  distinguishes  that 
philosopher  from  all  others  in  the  past  is  the  very  fact  that 
he  was  exactly  the  reverse  of  an  immoralist.  Zarathustra 
was  the  first  to  see  in  the  struggle  between  good  and  evil 
the  essential  wheel  in  the  working  of  things.  The  translation 
of  morality  into  the  metaphysical,  as  force,  cause,  end  in  it- 
self, was  his  work.  But  the  very  question  suggests  its  own 
answer.  Zarathustra  created  the  most  portentous  error, 
morality,  consequently  he  should  also  be  the  first  to  perceive 


t 


that  error,  not  only  because  he  has  had  longer  and  greater 
experience  of  the  subject  than  any  other  thinker — ^all  history 
is  the  experimental  refutation  of  the  theory  of  the  so-called 
moral  order  of  things: — the  more  important  point  is  that 
Zarathustra  was  more  truthful  than  any  other  thinker.  In 
his  teaching  alone  do  we  meet  with  truthfulness  upheld  as 
the  highest  virtue — i.e.:  the  reverse  of  the  cowardice  of  the 
'idealist'  who  flees  from  reality.  Zarathustra  had  more 
courage  in  his  body  than  any  other  thinker  before  or  after 
him.  To  tell  the  truth  and  to  aim  straight:  that  is  the  first 
Persian  virtue.  Am  I  understood?  .  .  .  The  overcoming 
of  morality  through  itself — through  truthfulness,  the  over- 
coming of  the  moralist  through  his  opposite — through  me — : 
that  is  what  the  name  Zarathustra  means  in  my  mouth." 

ELIZABETH  FÖRSTER-NIETZSCHE. 
Nietzsche  Archives, 

Weimar,  December    1905. 


f 


ZARATHUSTRA'S  DISCOURSES 


r 


1 


lil 


r 


I 


ZARATHUSTRA'S  PROLOGUE 

I. 

When  Zarathustra  was  thirty  years  old,  he  left  his  home 
and  the  lake  of  his  home,  and  went  into  the  mountains. 
There  he  enjoyed  his  spirit  and  his  solitude,  and  for  ten 
years  did  not  weary  of  it.  But  at  last  his  heart  changed, — 
and  rising  one  morning  with  the  roSy  dawn,  he  went  before 
the  sun,  and  spake  thus  unto  it: 

Thou  great  starl  What  would  be  thy  happiness  if  thou 
hadst  not  those  for  whom  thou  shinest! 

For  ten  years  hast  thou  climbed  hither  imto  my  cave: 
thou  wouldst  have  wearied  of  thy  light  and  of  the  journey, 
had  it  not  been  for  me,  mine  eagle,  and  my  serpent. 

But  we  awaited  thee  every  morning,  took  from  thee  thine 
overflow,  and  blessed  thee  for  it. 

-  Lo!  I  am  weary  of  my  wisdom,  like  the  bee  that  hath 
gathered  too  much  honey;  I  need  hands  outstretched  to 
take  it. 

I  would  fain  bestow  and  distribute,  imtil  the  wise  have 
once  more  become  joyous  in  their  folly,  and  the  poor  happy 
in  their  riches. 

Therefore  must  I  descend  into  the  deep:  as  thou  doest  in 
the  evening,  when  thou  goest  behind  the  sea,  and  givest 
light  also  to  the  nether- world,  thou  exuberant  star! 

Like  thee  must  I  go  down,  as  men  say,  to  whom  I  shall 
descend. 

Bless  me,  then,  thou  tranquil  eye,  that  canst  behold  even 
the  greatest  happiness  without  envy ! 

Bless  the  cup  that  is  about  to  overflow,  that  the  water 
may  flow  golden  out  of  it,  and  carry  everywhere  the  reflec- 
tion of  thy  bliss! 

25 


26 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  I 


Lo!     This  cup  is  again  going  to  empty  itself,  and  Zara- 
thustra  is  again  going  to  be  a  man. 

Thus  began  Zarathustra's  down-going. 


2. 

Zarathustra  went  down  the  mountain  alone,  no  one  meet- 
ing him.  When  he  entered  the  forest,  however,  there  sud- 
denly stood  before  him  an  old  man,  who  had  left  his  holy  cot 
to  seek  roots.   And  thus  spake  the  old  man  to  Zarathustra: 

"No  stranger  to  me  is  this  wanderer:  many  years  ago 
passed  he  by.  Zarathustra  he  was  called;  but  he  hath 
altered. 

/;    Then  thou  carriedst  thine  ashes  into  the  mountains:  wilt 
thou  now  carry  thy  fire  into  the  valleys?    Fearest  thou  not 
inthe  incendiary's  doom? 

Yea,  I  recognise  Zarathustra.  Pure  is  his  eye,  and  no 
loathing  lurketh  about  his  mouth.  Goeth  he  not  along  like 
a  dancer? 

Altered  is  Zarathustra;  a  child  hath  Zarathustra  become; 
an  awakened  one  is  Zarathustra:  what  wilt  thou  do  in  the 
land  of  the  sleepers? 

As  in  the  sea  hast  thou  lived  in  solitude,  and  it  hath  borne 
thee  up.    Alas,  wilt  thou  now  go  ashore?    Alas,  wilt  thou 
^again  drag  thy  body  thyself?" 
\li\  r   Zarathustra  answered:    "I  love  mankind." 

"Why,"  said  the  saint,  "did  I  go  into  the  forest  and  the 
desert?    Was  it  not  because  I  loved  men  far  too  well? 

Now  I  love  God:  men,  I  do  not  love.    Man  is  a  thing  too 
Jmperfect  for  me.    Love  to  man  would  be  fatal  to  me." 

Zarathustra  answered:     "What  spake  I  of  love!     I  am 
.  bringing  gifts  unto  men." 

"Give  them  nothing,"  said  the  saint.  "Take  rather  part 
of  their  load,  and  carry  it  along  with  them— that  will  be 
most  agreeable  unto  them:  if  only  it  be  agreeable  unto  thee! 

If,  however,  thou  wilt  give  unto  them,  give  them  no  more 
than  an  alms,  and  let  them  also  beg  for  it! " 

"No,"  replied  Zarathustra,  "I  give  no  alms.  I  am  not 
poor  enough  for  that." 


ZARATHUSTRA'S  PROLOGUE 


27 


The  saint  laughed  at  Zarathustra,  and  spake  thus:  "Then 
see  to  it  that  they  accept  thy  treasures!  They  are  distrust- 
ful of  anchorites,  and  do  not  believe  that  we  come  with  gifts. 

The  fall  of  our  footsteps  ringeth  too  hollow  through  their 
streets.  And  just  as  at  night,  when  they  are  in  bed  and 
hear  a  man  abroad  long  before  sunrise,  so  they  ask  them- 
selves concerning  us:    Where  goeth  the  thief? 

Go  not  to  men,  but  stay  in  the  forest!  Go  rather  to  the  \\ 
animals!  Why  not  be  like  me— a  bear  amongst  bears,  a  ' 
bird  amongst  birds?"  " 

"And  what  doeth  the  saint  in  the  forest?"  asked  Zara-    ' 
thustra. 

The  saint  answered:  "I  make  hymns  and  sing  them;  and 
in  making  hymns  I  laugh  and  weep  and  mumble:  thus  do  I 
praise  God.  ,_-j 

With  singing,  weeping,  laughing,  and  mumbling  do  I . 
praise  the  God  who  is  my  God.    But  what  dost  thou  bring  A 
us  as  a  gift?"  M 

When  Zarathustra  had  heard  these  words,  he  bowed  to  the 
saint  and  said:  "What  should  I  have  to  give  thee!  Let  me 
rather  hurry  hence  lest  I  take  aught  away  from  thee!"— 
And  thus  they  parted  from  one  another,  the  old  man  and 
Zarathustra,  laughing  like  schoolboys. 

When  Zarathustra  was  alone,  however,  he  said  to  his 
heart:  "Could  it  be  possible!  This  old  saint  in  the  forest 
hath  not  yet  heard  of  it,  that  God  is  deadr 


When  Zarathustra  arrived  at  the  nearest  town  which  ad- 
joineth  the  forest,  he  found  many  people  assembled  in  the 
market-place ;  for  it  had  been  announced  that  a  rope-dancer 
would  give  a  performance.  And  Zarathustra  spake  thus 
unto  the  people: 

/  teach  you  the  Superman,  Man  is  something  that  is  to 
be  surpassed.    What  have  ye  done  to  surpass  man? 

All  beings  hitherto  have  created  something  beyond  them- 
selves: and  ye  want  to  be  the  ebb  of  that  great  tide,  and 
would  rather  go  back  to  the  beast  than  surpass  man? 


28 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  I 


What  is  the  ape  to  man?  A  laughing-stock,  a  thing  of 
shame.  And  just  the  same  shall  man  be  to  the  Superman: 
a  laughing-stock,  a  thing  of  shame. 

Ye  have  made  your  way  from  the  worm  to  man,  and  much 
within  you  is  still  worm.  Once  were  ye  apes,  and  even  yet 
man  is  more  of  an  ape  than  any  of  the  apes. 

Even  the  wisest  among  you  is  only  a  disharmony  and 
hybrid  of  plant  and  phantom.  But  do  I  bid  you  become 
phantoms  or  plants? 

Lo,  I  teach  you  the  Superman! 

The  Superman  is  the  meaning  of  the  earth.  Let  your 
will  say:    The  Superman  shaU  be  the  meaning  of  the  earth  1 

I  conjure  you,  my  brethren,  remain  true  to  the  earth,  and 
believe  not  those  who  speak  unto  you  of  superearthly  hopes  1 
Poisoners  are  they,  whether  they  know  it  or  not. 

Despisers  of  life  are  they,  decaying  ones  and  poisoned 
ones  themselves,  of  whom  the  earth  is  weary:  so  away  with 
themj.-- 

Once  blasphemy  against  God  was  the  greatest  blas- 
phemy; but  God  died,  and  therewith  also  those  blasphemers. 
To  blaspheme  the  earth  is  now  the  dreadfulest  sin,  and  to 
rate  the  heart  of  the  unknowable  higher  than  the  meaning 
of  the  earth! 

X)nce  the  soul  looked  contemptuously  on  the  body,  and 
then  that  contempt  was  the  supreme  thing: — the  soul  wished 
the  body  meagre,  ghastly,  and  famished.  Thus  it  thought 
to  escape  from  the  body  and  the  earth. 

Oh,  that  soul  was  itself  meagre,  ghastly,  and  famished; 
and  cruelty  was  the  delight  of  that  soul! 

But  ye,  also,  my  brethren,  tell  me:  What  doth  your  body 
say  about  your  soul?  Is  your  soul  not  poverty  and  pollution 
and  wretched  self-complacency? 

Verily,  a  polluted  stream  is  man.  One  must  be  a  sea,  to 
receive  a  polluted  stream  without  becoming  impure. 

Lo,  I  teach  you  the  Superman :  he  is  that  sea ;  in  him  can 
your  great  contempt  be  submerged. 

What  is  the  greatest  thing  ye  can  experience?  It  is  the 
hour  of  great  contempt.  The  hour  in  which  even  your  hap- 
piness becometh  loathsome  unto  you,  and  so  also  your 
reason  and  virtue. 


ZARATHUSTRA'S  PROLOGUE 


29 


The  hour  when  ye  say:  "What  good  is  my  happiness! 
It  is  poverty  and  pollution  and  wretched  self-complacency. 
But  my  happiness  should  justify  existence  itself!" 

The  hour  when  ye  say:  "What  good  is  my  reason!  Doth 
it  long  for  knowledge  as  the  lion  for  his  food?  It  is  poverty 
and  pollution  and  wretched  self-complacency!" 

The  hour  when  ye  say:  "What  good  is  my  virtue!  As 
yet  it  hath  not  made  me  passionate.  How  weary  I  am  of 
my  good  and  my  bad!  It  is  all  poverty  and  pollution  and 
wretched  self-complacency!"  ^      .    ,    t  j 

The  hour  when  ye  say:  "What  good  is  my  justice!  I  do 
not  see  that  I  am  fervour  and  fuel.    The  just,  however,  are 

fervour  and  fuel!"  .    ,    t 

The  hour  when  we  say:    "What  good  is  my  pityl  Is  not 

pity  the  cross  on  which  he  is  nailed  who  loveth  man?    But 

my  pity  is  not  a  crucifixion."  .•,!.:> 

Have  ye  ever  spoken  thus?    Have  ye  ever  cried  thus? 

Ah!  would  that  I  had  heard  you  crying  thus!  ^ 

It  is  not  your  sin— it  is  your  self-satisfaction  that  crieth 

unto  heaven;    ypur  very  sparingness  in  sin  crieth  unto 

heaven!  ,  . ,    ..     x  ^ 

Where  is  the  lightning  to  lick  you  with  its   tongue? 

Where  is  the  frenzy  with  which  ye  should  be  inoculated? 
Lo,  I  teach  you  the  Superman:  he  is  that  lightning,  he  is 

that  frenzy! —  / 

When  Zarathustra  had  thus  spoken,  one  of  the  people 
called  out:  "We  have  now  heard  enough  of  the  rope- 
dancer;  it  is  time  now  for  us  to  see  him!"  And  all  the 
people  laughed  at  Zarathustra.  But  the  rope-dancer,  who 
thought  the  words  applied  to  him,  began  his  performance. 


4. 

f    Zarathustra,  however,  looked  at  the  people  and  wondered. 

/  Then  he  spake  thus:  . 

Man  is  a  rope  stretched  between  the  animal  and  tue 

\   Superman — a  rope  over  an  abyss.  ^ 

A  dangerous  crossing,  a  dangerous  wayfanng,  a  danger- 
ous looking-back,  a  dangerous  trembling  and  halting. 


30 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHTJStRA,  I 


I 


w  JS !'  ^Kf*  ^°  "^^  ^'.  *^t*  ^^  ^^  ^  ^"«ig«  a'^d  not  a  goal: 
what  IS  lovable  in  man  is  that  he  is  an  over-going  and  a 
r  down-gotng.  *      * 

;/  I  love  those  that  know  not  how  to  live  except  as  down- 
■  goers,  for  they  are  the  over-goers. 

'     I  love  the  great  despisers,  because  they  are  the  great 
adorers,  and  arrows  of  longing  for  the  other  shore. 

, ,  I  love  those  who  do  not  first  seek  a  reason  beyond  the 
stars  for  going  down  and  being  sacrifices,  but  sacrifice  them- 
selves to  the  earth,  that  the  earth  of  the  Superman  may 
hereafter  arrive. 

.  I  love  him  who  liveth  in  order  to  know,  and  seeketh  to 
know  in  order  that  the  Superman  may  hereafter  live.  Thus 
seeketh  he  his  own  down-going. 

I  love  him  who  laboureth  and  inventeth,  that  he  may  build 
the  house  for  the  Superman,  and  prepare  for  him  earth 
animal,  and  plant:  for  thus  seeketh  he  his  own  down-going' 
I  love  him  who  loveth  his  virtue:  for  virtue  is  the  will  to 
down-gomg,  and  an  arrow  of  longing. 

I  love  him  who  reserveth  no  share  of  spirit  for  himself 
but  wanteth  to  be  wholly  the  spirit  of  his  virtue:  thus  walk- 
eth  he  as  spirit  over  the  bridge. 
/  I  love  him  who  maketh  his  virtue  his  inclination  and 
destiny:  thus,  for  the  sake  of  his  virtue,  he  is  willing  to 
hve  on,  or  live  no  more. 

I  love  him  who  desireth  not  too  many  virtues.  One  vir- 
tue is  more  of  a  virtue  than  two,  because  it  is  more  of  a 
knot  for  one's  destiny  to  cling  to. 

I  love  him  whose  soul  is  lavish,  who  wanteth  no  thanks 
and  doth  not  give  back:  for  he  always  bestoweth,  and  de- 
sireth not  to  keep  for  himself. 

I  love  him  who  is  ashamed  when  the  dice  fall  in  his 
favour  and  who  then  asketh:  "Am  I  a  dishonest  player?" 
— for  he  is  willing  to  succumb. 

I  love  him  who  scattereth  golden  words  in  advance  of 
his  deeds,  and  always  doeth  more  than  he  promiseth-  for 
he  seeketh  his  own  down-going. 

I  love  him  who  justifieth  the  future  ones,  and  redeemeth 
the  past  ones:  for  he  is  willing  to  succumb  through  the 
present  ones.  ° 


\ 


ZARATHUSTRA'S  PROLOGUE  31 

I  love  him  who  chasteneth  his  God,  because  he  loveth 
his  God:  for  he  must  succumb  through  the  wrath  of  his 
uod. 

I  love  him  whose  soul  is  deep  even  in  the  wounding,  and 
may  succumb  through  a  small  matter:  thus  goeth  he  wiU- 
ingly  over  the  bridge.  . 

I  love  him  whose  soul  is  so  overfull  that  he  forgetteth 
himself,  and  all  things  are  in  him:  thus  all  things  become 
his  down-going. 

•  J-'°^^  J™  ^^°  ^^  °^  *  ^^^  spirit  and  a  free  heart:  thus 
IS  his  head  only  the  bowels  of  his  heart;  his  heart,  however, 
causeth  his  down-going. 

I  love  all  who  are  like  heavy  drops  falling  one  by  one  out 
of  the  dark  cloud  that  lowereth  over  man:  they  herald  the 
coming  of  the  lightning,  and  succumb  as  heralds. 

Lo,  I  am  a  herald  of  the  lightning,  and  a  heavy  drop  out 
of  the  cloud:  the  lightning,  however,  is  the  Superman.— 


I 


When  Zarathustra  had  spoken  these  words,  he  again 
looked  at  the  people,  and  was  silent.  "There  they  stand  " 
said  he  to  his  heart;  "there  they  laugh:  they  understand 
me  not;  I  am  not  the  mouth  for  these  ears. 

Must  one  first  batter  their  ears,  that  they  may  learn  to 
hear  with  their  eyes?  Must  one  clatter  like  kettledrums 
and  penitential  preachers?  Or  do  they  only  believe  the 
stammerer? 

They  have  something  whereof  they  are  proud.  What  do 
they  call  it,  that  which  maketh  them  proud?  Culture,  they 
call  It;  it  distinguisheth  them  from  the  goatherds. 

They  dislike,  therefore,  to  hear  of  'contempt'  of  them- 
selves.   So  I  will  appeal  to  their  pride. 

I  will  speak  unto  them  of  the  most  contemptible  thing- 
that,  however,  is  the  last  man  I" 

And  thus  spake  Zarathustra  unto  the  people:  \ 

It  is  time  for  man  to  fix  his  goal.  It  is  time  for  man  to 
plant  the  germ  of  his  highest  hope. 

Still  is  his  soil  rich  enough  for  it.    But  that  soil  will  one 


32 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  I 


•1^ 


day  be  poor  and  exhaxisted,  and  no  lofty  tree  will  any  longer 
be  able  to  grow  thereon. 

Alas!  there  cometh  the  time  when  man  will  no  longer 
launch  the  arrow  of  his  longing  beyond  man — and  the  string 
of  his  bow  will  have  unlearned  to  whizz  I 

I  tell  you:  one  must  still  have  chaos  in  one,  to  give  birth 
*  to  a  dancing  star.    I  tell  you :  ye  have  still  chaos  in  you. 

Alas!  There  cometh  the  time  when  man  will  no  longer 
give  birth  to  any  star.  Alas!  There  cometh  the  time  of  the 
most  despicable  man,  who  can  no  longer  despise  himself. 

Lo!    I  show  you  the  last  man. 

"What  is  love?  What  is  creation?  What  is  longing? 
What  is  a  star?" — so  asketh  the  last  man  and  blinketh. 

The  earth  hath  then  become  small,  and  on  it  there  hop- 
peth  the  last  man  who  maketh  everything  small.  His  species 
1 1  is  ineradicable  like  that  of  the  ground-flea;  the  last  man 
liveth  longest. 

"We  have  discovered  happiness" — say  the  last  men,  and 
blink  thereby. 

They  have  left  the  regions  where  it  is  hard  to  live;  for 
they  need  warmth.  One  still  loveth  one's  neighbour  and 
rubbeth  against  him;  for  one  needeth  warmth. 

Turning  ill  and  being  distrustful,  they  consider  sinful: 
they  walk  warily.    He  is  a  fool  who  still  stumbleth  over 
^    stones  or  men! 

A  little  poison  now  and  then:  that  maketh  pleasant 
dreams.    And  much  poison  at  last  for  a  pleasant  death. 

One  still  worketh,  for  work  is  a  pastime.  But  one  is  care- 
ful lest  the  pastime  should  hurt  one. 

One  no  longer  becometh  poor  or  rich;  both  are  too  bur- 
densome. Who  still  wanteth  to  rule?  Who  still  wanteth 
to  obey?  Both  are  too  burdensome. 
,  c^  No  shepherd,  and  one  herd!  Every  one  wanteth  the 
same;  every  one  is  equal:  he  who  hath  other  sentiments 
goeth  voluntarily  into  the  madhouse. 

"Formerly  all  the  world  was  insane," — ^say  the  subtlest 
of  them,  and  blink  thereby. 

They  are  clever  and  know  all  that  hath  happened:  so 
there  is  no  end  to  their  raillery.  People  still  fall  out,  but 
are  soon  reconciled — otherwise  it  spoileth  their  stomachs. 


)i 


>•. 


ZARATHUSTRA'S  PROLOGUE  33 

pey  have  their  KtÜe  pleasures  for  the  day,  and  their 

blijihX^'''''^  happiness/'-^y  the  last  men,  and 

is  ^o  d^S'^ä  v^^''"-  ^"^  °^  Zarathustra,  which 
IS  also  called    The  Prologue";  for  at  this  point  the  shoutina 

and  nurth  of  the  multitude  interrupted  him.    «Ste  iS 

gupennan!      And  all  the  people  exulted  and  smacked  their 
hSrt:  ^^'^^''^^'^'  ho^«^«'-'  turned  sad,  and  said  to  his 

eare^^^^  understand  me  not:  I  am  not  the  mouth  for  these 

Too  long  perhaps,  have  I  lived  in  the  mountains-  ton 
much  have  I  hearkened  unto  the  brooks  and  SJS^  Sow  d? 
I  speak  unto  them  as  unto  the  goatherds 

Ca^m  IS  my  soul,  and  clear,  like  the  mountains  in  th«. 

r?bi?j2ts.  ^"'  "^'^  "^"^  "^  '^°'^'  ^«^^  ^  -Sr^s  ^. 

]J^ih^\tV^^\  ^"^^r^  '"^.  ^^  '^"gJ^=  a°d  while  they 
laugh  they  hate  me  too.   There  is  ice  in  their  laughter.» 


6. 


moI?h  mir     ^'  '°"^thing  happened  which  made  every 

Su^^  Z  rn    "l,  '"'"'^  ^^^  ^^-    1°  the  meantime,  df 
course   the  rope-dancer  had  commenced  his  performa^e- 

?nn?  vT^  °"*  ^*  ^  ""^^  ^'^''  ^d  was  going  Ing^; 
rope  which  was  stretched  between  two  towers  so  that  i? 
hung  above  the  market-place  and  the  peopTe  ^en  he  wi 
just  midway  across,  the  litüe  door  open?d  once  more  TS 
a  gaudily-dressed  fellow  like  a  buff  oon%rang  out  and  Vent 
friffillT3  ^'''  r-  :^  °"'  ^^I'-^^t/'  cried  Ss 
-^kst  I  t,vÄ  ^°  •!!:  '^^r^T^'  interloper,  sallow-face! 
twm!  Ü,.  fnl  f  T^u'"^  ^*'^'    W^^t  dost  thou  here  be- 

sS?  hi  T^L  ^°  ^^  *°^"''  ^^  ^«  Pla<=e  for  thee,  thou 
shouldst  be  locked  up;  to  one  better  than  thyself  thou 


"^ 


■i»;  .Sf . 


34 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  I 


blockest  the  way  1"— And  with  every  word  he  came  nearer 
and  nearer  the  first  one.  When,  however,  he  was  but  a  step 
behind,  there  happened  the  frightful  thmg  which  made  every 
mouth  mute  and  every  eye  fixed: — ^he  uttered  a  yell  like  a 
devil,  and  jumped  over  the  other  who  was  in  his  way.  The 
latter,  however,  when  he  thus  saw  his  rival  triumph,  lost 
at  the  same  time  his  head  and  his  footing  on  the  rope;  he 
threw  his  pole  away,  and  shot  downwards  faster  than  it,  like 
an  eddy  of  arms  and  legs,  into  the  depth.  The  market- 
place and  the  people  were  like  the  sea  when  the  storm 
Cometh  on:  they  all  flew  apart  and  in  disorder,  especially 
I  where  the  body  was  about  to  fall. 

-  Zarathustra,  however,  remained  standing,  and  just  beside 
him  fell  the  body,  badly  injured  and  disfigured,  but  not  yet 
dead.  After  a  while  consciousness  returned  to  the  shattered 
man,  and  he  saw  Zarathustra  kneeling  beside  him.  "What 
art  thou  doing  there?"  said  he  at  last,  "I  knew  long  ago 
'  that  the  devil  would  trip  me  up.  Now  he  draggeth  me  to 
hell:  wilt  thou  prevent  him?" 

"On  mine  honour,  my  friend,"  answered  Zarathustra, 
"there  is  nothing  of  all  that  whereof  thou  speakest:  there 
is  no  devil  and  no  hell.  Thy  soul  will  be  dead  even  sooner 
than  thy  body:  fear,  therefore,  nothing  any  morel" 

The  man  looked  up  distrustfully.  "If  thou  speakest  the 
truth,"  said  he,  "I  lose  nothing  when  I  lose  my  life.  I  am 
not  much  more  than  an  animal  which  hath  been  taught  to 
dance  by  blows  and  scanty  fare." 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Zarathustra,  "thou  hast  made  danger 
thy  calling;  therein  there  is  nothing  contemptible.  Now 
thou  perishest  by  thy  calling:  therefore  will  I  bury  thee 
with  mine  own  hands." 

When  Zarathustra  had  said  this  the  dying  one  did  not 
reply  further;  but  he  moved  his  hand  as  if  he  sought  the,l 
hand  of  Zarathustra  in  gratitude.  :>t 


7. 

Meanwhile  the  evening  came  on,  and  the  market-place 
veiled  itself  in  gloom.    Then  the  people  dispersed,  for  even 


ZARATHUSTRA'S  PROLOGUE 


35 


i.t 


•;^ 


curiosity  and  terror  become  fatigued.  Zarathustra,  however, 
still  sat  beside  the  dead  man  on  the  ground,  absorbed  in 
thought:  so  he  forgot  the  time.  But  at  last  it  became 
night,  and  a  cold  wind  blew  upon  the  lonely  one.  Then 
arose  Zarathustra  and  said  to  his  heart: 

Verily,  a  fine  catch  of  fish  hath  Zarathustra  made  to-day  1 
It  is  not  a  man  he  hath  caught,  but  a  corpse. 

Sombre  is  human  life,  and  as  yet  without  meaning:  a 
buffoon  may  be  fateful  to  it. 

I  want  to  teach  men  the  sense  of  their  existence,  which  is 
the  Superman,  the  lightning  out  of  the  dark  cloud— man. 

But  still  am  I  far  from  them,  and  my  sense  speaketh  not 
unto  their  sense.  To  men  I  am  still  something  between  a 
fool  and  a  corpse. 

Gloomy  is  the  night,  gloomy  are  the  ways  of  Zarathustra. 
Come,  thou  cold  and  stiff  companion!  I  carry  thee  to  the 
place  where  I  shall  bury  thee  with  mine  own  hands. 


8. 

« 

When  Zarathustra  had  said  this  to  his  heart,  he  put  the 
corpse  upon  his  shoulders  and  set  out  on  his  way.  Yet  had 
he  not  gone  a  hundred  steps,  when  there  stole  a  man  up  to 
him  and  whispered  in  his  ear — and  lo!  he  that  spake  was 
the  buffoon  from  the  tower.  "Leave  this  town,  O  Zara- 
thustra," said  he,  "there  are  too  many  here  who  hate  thee. 
The  good  and  just  hate  thee,  and  call  thee  their  enemy  and 
despiser;  the  believers  in  the  orthodox  belief  hate  thee,  and 
call  thee  a  danger  to  the  multitude.  It  was  thy  good  for- 
tune to  be  laughed  at:  and  verily  thou  spakest  like  a  buf- 
foon. It  was  thy  good  fortune  to  associate  with  the  dead 
og;  by  so  humiliating  thyself  thou  hast  saved  thy  life 
)-day.^  Depart,  however,  from  this  town, — or  to-morrow 
X  shall  jump  over  thee,  a  living  man  over  a  dead  one."  And 
when  he  had  said  this,  the  buffoon  vanished;  Zarathustra, 
however,  went  on  through  the  dark  streets. 

At  the  gate  of  the  town  the  grave-diggers  met  him:  they 
shone  their  torch  on  his  face,  and,  recognising  Zarathustra, 
they  sorely  derided  him.    "Zarathustra  is  carrying  away  the 


36 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  I 


i! 


dead  dog:  a  fine  thing  that  Zarathustra  hath  turned  a  graye- 
dieeerl  For  our  hands  are  too  cleanly  for  that  roast.  Will 
zSthustra  steal  the  bite  from  the  devil?  Well  then,  good 
luck  to  the  repast!  If  only  the  devil  is  not  a  better  thief 
than  Zarathustra!— he  will  steal  them  boüi,  he  will  eat 
them  both!"     And  they  laughed  among  themselves,  and 

put  their  heads  together.  .       v      -„ 

Zarathustra  made  no  answer  thereto,  but  went  on  his  way. 
When  he  had  gone  on  for  two  hours,  past  forests  and 
swamps,  he  had  heard  too  much  of  the  hungry  howling  of 
the  wolves,  and  he  himself  became  a-hungry.  So  he  halted 
at  a  lonely  house  in  which  a  light  was  burmng. 

"Hunger  attacketh  me,"  said  Zarathustra,  "like  a  robben 
Among  forests  and  swamps  my  hunger  attacketh  me,  and 

late  in  the  night.  , 

«Strange  humours  hath  my  hunger.  Often  it  cometh  to 
me  only  after  a  repast,  and  all  day  it  hath  failed  to  come: 

where  hath  it  been?"  ,    ,         ^     ,  .  ., 

And  thereupon  Zarathustra  knocked  at  the  door  of  tue 

house.     An  old  man  appeared,  who  carried  a  light,  and 

asked:    "Who  cometh  unto  me  and  my  bad  sleep? 

"A  living  man  and  a  dead  one,"  said  Zarathustra.      Give 

me  something  to  eat  and  drink,  I  forgot  it  during  the  day. 

He  that  feedeth  the  hungry  refresheth  his  own  soul,  saith 

The  old  man  withdrew,  but  came  back  immediately  aiid 
offered  Zarathustra  bread  and  wine.  "A  bad  country  for 
the  hungry  "  said  he;  "that  is  why  I  live  here.  Animal  and 
man  come  unto  me,  the  anchorite.  But  bid  Üiy  companion 
eat  and  drink  also,  he  is  wearier  than  thou  "  Zarathustra 
answered:  "My  companion  is  dead;  I  shall  hardly  be  able 
to  persuade  him  to  eat."  "That  doth  not  concern  me, 
said  the  old  man  sullenly;  "he  that  knocketh  at  my  door 
must  take  what  I  offer  him.    Eat,  and  fare  ye  welll  — 

Thereafter  Zarathustra  again  went  on  for  two  üours, 
trusting  to  the  path  and  the  light  of  the  stars:  for  he  was 
an  experienced  night-walker,  and  liked  to  look  mto  the  face 
of  all  that  slept.  When  the  morning  dawned,  however,  Zara- 
thustra found  himself  in  a  thick  forest,  and  no  path  was 
any  longer  visible.    He  then  put  the  dead  man  m  a  hollow 


I»  I 


ZARATHUSTRA'S  PROLOGUE 


37 


tree  at  his  head — for  he  wanted  to  protect  him  from  the 
wolves — and  laid  himself  down  on  the  ground  and  moss. 
And  immediately  he  fell  asleep,  tired  in  body,  but  with  a 
tranquil  soul. 


Long  slept  Zarathustra;  and  not  only  the  rosy  dawn 
passed  over  his  head,  but  also  the  morning.  At  last,  how- 
ever, his  eyes  opened;  and  amazedly  he  gazed  into  the  forest 
and  the  stillness,  amazedly  he  gazed  into  himself.  Then  he 
arose  quickly,  like  a  seafarer  who  all  at  once  seeth  the  land ; 
and  he  shouted  for  joy:  for  he  saw  a  new  truth.  And  he 
spake  thus  to  his  heart:  --- 

^A  light  hath  dawned  upon  me:  I  need  companions — 
living  ones;  not  dead  companions  and  corpses,  which  I 
carry  with  me  where  I  will.  — 

But  I  need  living  companions,  who  will  follow  me  because 
they  want  to  follow  themselves — ^and  to  the  place  where 
I  will. 

A  light  hath  dawned  upon  me.  Not  to  the  people  is 
Zarathustra  to  speak,  but  to  companions!  Zarathustra 
shall  not  be  the  herd's  herdsman  and  hound! 

To  allure  many  from  the  herd — for  that  purpose  have  I 
come.  The  people  and  the  herd  must  be  angry  with  me:  a 
robber  shall  Zarathustra  be  called  by  the  herdsmen. 

Herdsmen,  I  say,  but  they  call  themselves  the  good  and 
just.  Herdsmen,  I  say,  but  they  call  themselves  the  be- 
lievers in  the  orthodox  belief. 

Behold  the  good  and  just!  Whom  do  they  hate  most? 
Him  who  breaketh  up  their  tables  of  values,  the  breaker, 
the  law-breaker: — ^he,  however,  is  the  creator. 

Behold  the  believers  of  all  beliefs!  Whom  do  they  hate 
most?  Him  who  breaketh  up  their  tables  of  values,  the 
breaker,  the  law-breaker: — ^he,  however,  is  the  creator,      y 

Companions,  the  creator  seeketh,  not  corpses — and  not 
herds  or  believers  either.  Fellow-creators  the  creator  seek- 
eth— those  who  grave  new  values  on  new  tables. 

Companions,  tiie  creator  seeketh,  and  fellow-reapers:  for 
everything  is  ripe  for  the  harvest  with  him.    But  he  lacketh 


38 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  I 


ZARATHUSTRA'S  PROLOGUE 


39 


(   '' 


ill 


i  t 


the  hundred  sickles:  so  he  plucketh  the  ears  of  com  and  is 

Vexed 

Companions,  the  creator  seeketh,  and  such  as  know  how 
to  whet  their  sickles.  Destroyers,  will  they  be  called,  and 
despisers  of  good  and  evil.    But  they  are  the  reapers  and 

'Tellow-creators,  Zarathustra  seeketh;  fellow-reapers  and 
fellow-rejoicers,  Zarathustra  seeketh:  what  hath  he  to  do 
with  herds  and  herdsmen  and  corpses  1 

And  thou,  my  first  companion,  rest  in  peace!  Well  have 
I  buried  thee  in  thy  hollow  tree;  well  have  I  hid  thee  from 

the  wolves.  ,        ,      ,  .      ,       rr.    •  4. 

But  I  part  from  thee;  the  time  hath  arrived.  Twixt 
rosy  dawn  and  rosy  dawn  there  came  unto  me  a  new  truth. 
"^I  am  not  to  be  a  herdsman,  I  am  not  to  be  a  grave-dig- 
ger. Not  any  more  will  I  discourse  unto  the  people;  for 
the  last  time  have  I  spoken  unto  the  dead. 

With  the  creators,  the  reapers,  and  the  rejoicers  will  i 
associate:  the  rainbow  will  I  show  them,  and  all  the  stairs 

to  the  Superman.  j  ^     ^u» 

To  the  lone-dwellers  will  I  smg  my  song,  and  to  tue 
twain-dwellers;  and  unto  him  who  hath  still  ears  for  the 
unheard,  will  I  make  the  heart  heavy  with  my  happiness. 

I  make  for  my  goal,  I  follow  my  course;  over  the  loiter- 
ing and  tardy  will  I  leap.  Thus  let  my  on-going  be  their 
down-going! 

10. 

This  had  Zarathustra  said  to  his  heart  when  the  sun 
stood  at  noon-tide.  Then  he  looked  inquiringly  aloft,— for 
he  heard  above  him  the  sharp  call  of  a  bird.  And  behold! 
An  eagle  swept  through  the  air  in  wide  circles,  and  on  it 
hung  a  serpent,  not  like  a  prey,  but  like  a  friend:  for  it  kept 
itself  coiled  round  the  eagle's  neck.  ,      .  .    j 

"They  are  mine  animals,"  said  Zarathustra,  and  rejoiced 

in  his  heart.  .     *      • 

"The  proudest  animal  under  the  sun,  and  the  wisest  ani- 
mal under  the  sun,— they  have  come  out  to  reconnoitre. 

They  want  to  know  whether  Zarathustra  süll  livetü. 
Verily,  do  I  still  live? 


More  dangerous  have  I  found  it  among  men  than  among 
animals;  in  dangerous  paths  goeth  Zaraüiustra.  Let  mine 
animals  lead  me! " 

When  Zarathustra  had  said  this,  he  remembered  the  words 
of  the  saint  in  the  forest.  Then  he  sighed  and  spake  thus 
to  his  heart: 

"Would  that  I  were  wiser!  Would  that  I  were  wise  from 
the  very  heart,  like  my  serpent! 

But  I  am  asking  the  impossible.  Therefore  do  I  ask  my 
pride  to  go  always  with  my  wisdom! 

And  if  my  wisdom  should  some  day  forsake  me: — alas! 
it  loveth  to  fly  away! — may  my  pride  then  fly  with  my 
folly!» 

Thus  began  Zarathustra's  down-going. 


I 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA 

FIRST  PART 


\ 


I.— THE   THREE   METAMORPHOSES 

Three  metamorphoses  of  the  spirit  do  I  designate  to  you:  \ 
how  the  spirit  becometh  a  camel,  the  camel  a  lion,  and  the; 
lion  at  last  a  child. 

Many  heavy  things  are  there  for  the  spirit,  the  strong 
load-bearing  spirit  in  which  reverence  dwelleth:  for  the 
heavy  and  the  heaviest  longeth  its  strength. 

What  is  heavy?  so  asketh  the  load-bearing  spirit;  then 
kneeleth  it  down  like  the  camel,  and  wanteth  to  be  well 
laden. 

What  is  the  heaviest  thing,  ye  heroes?  asketh  the  load- 
bearing  spirit,  that  I  may  take  it  upon  me  and  rejoice  in  my 

strength. 

Is  it  not  this:  To  humiliate  oneself  in  order  to  mortify 
one's  pride?  To  exhibit  one's  folly  in  order  to  mock  at 
one's  wisdom? 

Or  is  it  this:  To  desert  our  cause  when  it  celebrateth  its 
triumph?    To  ascend  high  mountains  to  tempt  the  tempter? 

Or  is  it  this:  To  feed  on  the  acorns  and  grass  of  knowl- 
edge, and  for  the  sake  of  truth  to  suffer  hunger  of  soul? 

Or  is  it  this:  To  be  sick  and  dismiss  comforters,  and 
make  friends  of  the  deaf,  who  never  hear  thy  requests? 

Or  is  it  this:  To  go  into  foul  water  when  it  is  the  water 
of  truth,  and  not  disclaim  cold  frogs  and  hot  toads? 

Or  is  it  this:  To  love  those  who  despise  us,  and  give 
one's  hand  to  the  phantom  when  it  is  going  to  frighten  us? 

All  these  heaviest  things  the  load-bearing  spirit  taketh 
upon  itself:  and  like  the  camel,  which,  when  laden,  hasten- 
eth  into  the  wilderness,  so  hasteneth  the  spirit  into  its 
wilderness. 

But  in  the  loneliest  wilderness  happeneth  the  second 
metamorphosis:  here  the  spirit  becometh  a  lion;  freedom 
will  it  capture,  and  lordship  in  its  own  wilderness. 

Its  last  Lord  it  here  seeketh:  hostile  will  it  be  to  him,  and 

43 


44 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  I 


W 


to  its  last  God;  for  victory  will  it  struggle  with  tjie  great 
dragon. 

What  is  the  great  dragon  which  the  spirit  is  no  longer 
inclined  to  call  Lord  and  God?  "Thou-shalt,"  is  the  great 
dragon  called.    But  the  spirit  of  the  lion  saith,  "I  will.*' 

"Thou-shalt,"  lieth  in  its  path,  sparkling  with  gold — a 
scale-covered  beast;  and  on  every  scale  glittereth  golden, 
"Thou  Shalt!" 

The  values  of  a  thousand  years  glitter  on  those  scales, 
and  thus  speaketh  the  mightiest  of  all  dragons:  "All  the 
values  of  things — glitter  on  me. 

All  values  have  already  been  created,  and  all  created 
values — do  I  represent.  Verily,  there  shall  be  no  *I  will' 
any  more."    Thus  speaketh  the  dragon. 

My  brethren,  wherefore  is  there  need  of  the  lion  in  the 
spirit?  Why  sufficeth  not  the  beast  of  burden,  which  re- 
nounceth  and  is  reverent? 

i;  To  create  new  values — that,  even  the  lion  cannot  yet  ac- 
complish: but  to  create  itself  freedom  for  new  creating — 
that  can  the  might  of  the  lion  do. 

To  create  itself  freedom,  and  give  a  holy  Nay  even  xmto 
duty:  for  that,  my  brethren,  there  is  need  of  the  lion. 
»  To  assume  the  right  to  new  values — that  is  the  most 
formidable  assumption  for  a  load-bearing  and  reverent 
spirit.  Verily,  unto  such  a  spirit  it  is  preying,  and  the 
work  of  a  beast  of  prey. 

As  its  holiest,  it  once  loved  "Thou-shalt":  now  is  it  forced 
to  find  illusion  and  arbitrariness  even  in  the  holiest  things, 
that  it  may  capture  freedom  from  its  love:  the  lion  is  needed 
for  this  capture. 

But  tell  me,  my  brethren,  what  the  child  can  do,  which 
even  the  lion  could  not  do?  Why  hath  the  preying  lion  still 
to  become  a  child? 

Innocence  is  the  child,  and  forgetfulness,  a  new  begin- 
ning, a  game,  a  self-rolling  wheel,  a  first  movement,  a  holy 
Yea. 

Aye,  for  the  game  of  creating,  my  brethren,  there  is 
needed  a  holy  Yea  unto  life:  its  own  will,  willeth  now  the 
^irit;  his  own  world  winneth  the  world's  outcast. 

Three  metamorphoses  of  the  spirit  have  I  designated  to 


n— THE  ACADEMIC  CHAIRS  OF  VIRTUE      45 

you:  how  the  spirit  became  a  camel,  the  camel  a  lioÄ,  and 
the  lion  at  last  a  child. — 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra.    And  at  that  time  he  abode  in 
the  town  which  is  called  The  Pied  Cow. 


II.— THE  ACADEMIC  CHAIRS  OF  VIRTUE 

People  commended  unto  Zarathustra  a  wise  man,  as  one 
who  could  discourse  well  about  sleep  and  virtue:  greatly 
was  he  honoured  and  rewarded  for  it,  and  all  the  youths  sat 
before  his  chair.  To  him  went  Zarathustra,  and  sat  among 
the  youths  before  his  chair.    And  thus  spake  the  wise  man: 

Respect  and  modesty  in  presence  of  sleep!  That  is  the 
first  thing!  And  to  go  out  of  the  way  of  all  who  sleep  badly 
and  keep  awake  at  night! 

Modest  is  even  the  thief  in  presence  of  sleep:  he  always 
stealeth  softly  through  the  night.  Immodest,  however,  is 
the  night-watchman;  immodestly  he  carrieth  his  horn. 

No  small  art  is  it  to  sleep:  it  is  necessary  for  that  pur- 
pose to  keep  awake  all  day. 

Ten  times  a  day  must  thou  overcome  thyself:  that 
causeth  wholesome  weariness,  and  is  poppy  to  the  soul. 

Ten  times  must  thou  reconcile  again  with  thyself;  for 
overcoming  is  bitterness,  and  badly  sleep  the  unreconciled. 

Ten  truths  must  thou  find  during  the  day;  otherwise  wilt 
thou  seek  truth  during  the  night,  and  thy  soul  will  have 
been  hungry. 

Ten  times  must  thou  laugh  during  the  day,  and  be  cheer- 
ful ;  otherwise  thy  stomach,  the  father  of  affliction,  will  dis- 
turb thee  in  the  night. 

Few  people  know  it,  but  one  must  have  all  the  virtues  in 
order  to  sleep  well.  Shall  I  bear  false  witness?  Shall  I 
commit  adultery? 

Shall  I  covet  my  neighbour's  maidservant?  All  that 
would  ill  accord  with  good  sleep. 

And  even  if  one  have  all  the  virtues,  there  is  still  one 
thing  needful :  to  send  the  virtues  themselves  to  sleep  at  the 
right  time. 


46 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  I 


III— BACKWORLDSMEN 


47 


t. 


That  they  may  not  quarrel  with  one  another,  the  good 
females!    And  about  thee,  thou  unhappy  one! 

Peace  with  God  and  thy  neighbour:  so  desireth  good 
sleep.  And  peace  also  with  thy  neighbour's  devil!  Other- 
wise it  will  haunt  thee  in  the  night. 

Honour  to  the  government,  and  obedience,  and  also  to  the 
crooked  government!  So  desireth  good  sleep.  How  can  I 
help  it,  if  power  like  to  walk  on  crooked  legs? 

He  who  leadeth  his  sheep  to  the  greenest  pasture,  shall 
always  be  for  me  the  best  shepherd:  so  doth  it  accord  with 

good  sleep. 

Many  honours  I  want  not,  nor  great  treasures:  they  ex- 
cite the  spleen.  But  it  is  bad  sleeping  without  a  good  name 
and  a  little  treasure. 

A  small  company  is  more  welcome  to  me  than  a  bad  one: 
but  they  must  come  and  go  at  the  right  time.  So  doth  it 
accord  with  good  sleep. 

Well,  also,  do  the  poor  in  spirit  please  me:  they  promote 
sleep.    Blessed  are  they,  especially  if  one  always  give  in  to 

them.  ,  ,  . 

Thus  passeth  the  day  unto  the  virtuous.  When  night 
cometh,  then  take  I  good  care  not  to  summon  sleep.  It  dis- 
liketh  to  be  summoned— sleep,  the  lord  of  the  virtues! 

But  I  think  of  what  I  have  done  and  thought  durmg  the 
day.  Thus  ruminating,  patient  as  a  cow,  I  ask  myself: 
What  were  thy  ten  over  comings? 

And  what  were  the  ten  reconciliations,  and  the  ten  truths, 
and  the  ten  laughters  with  which  my  heart  enjoyed  itself? 

Thus  pondering,  and  cradled  by  forty  thoughts,  it  over- 
taketh  me  all  at  once— sleep,  the  unsummoned,  the  lord  of 

the  virtues.  ^ 

Sleep  tappeth  on  mine  eye,  and  it  tumeth  heavy,  bleep 
toucheth  my  mouth,  and  it  remaineth  open. 

Verily,  on  soft  soles  doth  it  come  to  me,  the  dearest  of 
thieves,  and  stealeth  from  me  my  thoughts:  stupid  do  I  then 
stand,  like  this  academic  chair. 

But  not  much  longer  do  I  then  stand:    I  already  lie. — 

When  Zarathustra  heard  the  wise  man  thus  speak,  he 
laughed  in  his  heart:  for  thereby  had  a  light  dawned  upon 
him.    And  thus  spake  he  to  his  heart: 


I 


11 


A  fool  seemeth  this  wise  man  with  his  forty  thoughts: 
but  I  believe  he  knoweth  well  how  to  sleep. 

Happy  even  is  he  who  liveth  near  this  wise  man!  Such 
sleep  is  contagious — even  through  a  thick  wall  it  is  con- 
tagious. 

A  magic  resideth  even  in  his  academic  chair.  And  not 
in  vain  did  the  youths  sit  before  the  preacher  of  virtue. 

His  wisdom  is  to  keep  awake  in  order  to  sleep  well.  And 
verily,  if  life  had  no  sense,  and  had  I  to  choose  nonsense, 
this  would  be  the  desirablest  nonsense  for  me  also. 

Now  know  I  well  what  people  sought  formerly  above  all 
else  when  they  sought  teachers  of  virtue.  Good  sleep  they 
sought  for  themselves,  and  poppy-head  virtues  to  pro- 
mote it! 

To  all  those  belauded  sages  of  the  academic  chairs,  wis- 
dom was  sleep  without  dreams:  they  knew  no  higher  sig- 
nificance of  life. 

Even  at  present,  to  be  sure,  there  are  some  like  this 
preacher  of  virtue,  and  not  always  so  honourable:  but  their 
time  is  past.  And  not  much  longer  do  they  stand:  there 
they  already  lie. 

Blessed  are  those  drowsy  ones:  for  they  shall  soon  nod 
to  sleep. — 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


III.— BACKWORLDSMEN 

Once  on  a  time,  Zarathustra  also  cast  his  fancy  beyond 
man,  like  all  backworldsmen.  The  work  of  a  suflfering  and 
tortured  God,  did  the  world  then  seem  to  me. 

The  dream — and  diction — of  a  God,  did  the  world  then 
seem  to  me;  coloured  vapours  before  the  eyes  of  a  divinely 
dissatisfied  one. 

Good  and  evil,  and  joy  and  woe,  and  I  and  thou — col- 
oured vapours  did  they  seem  to  me  before  creative  eyes. 
The  creator  wished  to  look  away  from  himself, — thereupon 
he  created  the  world. 
.     Intoxicating  joy  is  it  for  the  sufferer  to  look  away  from 


48 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  I 


III— BACKWORLDSMEN 


49 


I'  \ 


his  suffering  and  forget  himself.    Intoxicating  joy  and  self- 
forgetting,  did  the  world  once  seem  to  me. 

This  world,  the  eternally  imperfect,  an  eternal  contradic- 
tion's image  and  imperfect  image — an  intoxicating  joy  to  its 
imperfect  creator: — thus  did  the  world  once  seem  to  me. 

Thus,  once  on  a  time,  did  I  also  cast  my  fancy  beyond 
man,  like  all  backworldsmen.    Beyond  man,  forsooth? 

Ah,  ye  brethren,  that  God  whom  I  created  was  human 
work  and  human  madness,  like  all  the  Gods! 

A  man  was  he,  and  only  a  poor  fragment  of  a  man  and 
ego.  Out  of  mine  own  ashes  and  glow  it  came  unto  me,  that 
phantom.  And  verily,  it  came  not  xmto  me  from  the  be- 
yond I 

What  happened,  my  brethren?  I  surpassed  myself,  the 
suffering  one;  I  carried  mine  own  ashes  to  the  mountain;  a 
brighter  flame  I  contrived  for  myself.  And  lol  Thereupon 
the  phantom  withdrew  from  me! 

To  me  the  convalescent  would  it  now  be  suffering  and 
torment  to  believe  in  such  phantoms:  suffering  would  it  now 
be  to  me,  and  humiliation.    Thus  speak  I  to  backworldsmen. 

Suffering  was  it,  and  impotence — that  created  all  back- 
worlds  ;  and  the  short  madness  of  happiness,  which  only  the 
greatest  sufferer  experienceth. 

Weariness,  which  seeketh  to  get  to  the  ultimate  with  one 
leap,  with  a  death-leap;  a  poor  ignorant  weariness,  unwill- 
ing even  to  will  any  longer:  that  created  all  Gods  and 
backworlds. 

Believe  me,  my  brethren!  It  was  the  body  which  de- 
spaired of  the  body — it  groped  with  the  fingers  of  the  in- 
fatuated spirit  at  the  ultimate  walls. 

Believe  me,  my  brethren!  It  was  the  body  which  de- 
spaired of  the  earth — it  heard  the  bowels  of  existence  speak- 
ing unto  it. 

And  then  it  sought  to  get  through  the  ultimate  walls  with 
its  head — and  not  with  its  head  only — into  "the  other 
world." 

But  that  "other  world"  is  well  concealed  from  man,  that 
dehumanised,  inhuman  world,  which  is  a  celestial  naught; 
and  the  bowels  of  existence  do  not  speak  unto  man,  except 
as  man. 


Verily,  it  is  difficult  to  prove  all  being,  and  hard  to  make 
it  speak.  Tell  me,  ye  brethren,  is  not  the  strangest  of  all 
things  best  proved? 

Yea,  this  ego,  with  its  contradiction  and  perplexity,  speak- 
eth  most  uprightly  of  its  being — this  creating,  willing,  evalu- 
ing  ego,  which  is  the  measure  and  value  of  things. 

And  this  most  upright  existence,  the  ego — it  speaketh  of 
the  body,  and  still  implieth  the  body,  even  when  it  museth 
and  raveth  and  fluttereth  with  broken  wings. 

Always  more  uprightly  learneth  it  to  speak,  the  ego;  and 
the  more  it  learneth,  the  more  doth  it  find  titles,  and  honours 
for  the  body  and  the  earth. 

A  new  pride  taught  me  mine  ego,  and  that  teach  I  imto 
men:  no  longer  to  thrust  one's  head  into  the  sand  of  celestial 
things,  but  to  carry  it  freely,  a  terrestrial  head,  which  giveth 
meaning  to  the  earth! 

A  new  will  teach  I  unto  men:  to  choose  that  path  which 
man  hath  followed  blindly,  and  to  approve  of  it — and  no 
longer  to  slink  aside  from  it,  like  the  sick  and  perishing! 

The  sick  and  perishing — it  was  they  who  despised  the 
body  and  the  earth,  and  invented  the  heavenly  world,  and 
the  redeeming  blood-drops;  but  even  those  sweet  and  sad 
poisons  they  borrowed  from  the  body  and  the  earth! 

From  their  misery  they  sought  escape,  and  the  stars  were 
too  remote  for  them.  Then  they  sighed:  "O  that  there 
were  heavenly  paths  by  which  to  steal  into  another  ex- 
istence and  into  happiness! "  Then  they  contrived  for  them- 
selves their  by-paths  and  bloody  draughts! 

Beyond  the  sphere  of  their  body  and  this  earth  they  now 
fancied  themselves  transported,  these  ungrateful  ones.  But 
to  what  did  they  owe  the  convulsion  and  rapture  of  their 
transport?    To  their  body  and  this  earth. 

Gentle  is  Zarathustra  to  the  sickly.  Verily,  he  is  not 
indignant  at  their  modes  of  consolation  and  ingratitude. 
May  they  become  convalescents  and  overcomers,  and  create 
higher  bodies  for  themselves! 

Neither  is  Zarathustra  indignant  at  a  convalescent  who 
looketh  tenderly  on  his  delusions,  and  at  midnight  stealeth 
round  the  graVe  of  his  God;  but  sickness  and  a  sick  frame 
remain  even  in  his  tears. 


so 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  I 


IV— THE  DESPISERS  OF  THE  BODY 


51 


Many  sickly  ones  have  there  always  been  among  those 
who  muse,  and  languish  for  God;  violently  they  hate  the 
discerning  ones,  and  the  latest  of  virtues,  which  is  up- 
rightness. 

Backward  they  always  gaze  toward  dark  ages:  then,  in- 
deed, were  delusion  and  faith  something  different.  ^  Raving 
of  the  reason  was  likeness  to  God,  and  doubt  was  sin. 

Too  well  do  I  know  those  godlike  ones:  they  insist  on 
being  believed  in,  and  that  doubt  is  sin.  Too  well,  also,  do 
I  know  what  they  themselves  most  believe  in. 

Verily,  not  in  backworlds  and  redeeming  blood-drops:  but 
in  the  body  do  they  also  believe  most;  and  their  own  body 
is  for  them  the  thing-in-itself. 

But  it  is  a  sickly  thing  to  them,  and  gladly  would  they 
get  out  of  their  skin.  Therefore  hearken  they  to  the 
preachers  of  death,  and  themselves  preach  backworlds. 

Hearken  rather,  my  brethren,  to  the  voice  of  the  healthy 
body ;  it  is  a  more  upright  and  pure  voice. 

More  uprightly  and  purely  speaketh  the  healthy  body, 
perfect  and  square-built;  and  it  speaketh  of  the  meaning 
of  the  earth. — 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


IV.— THE   DESPISERS   OF  THE   BODY 

To  the  despisers  of  the  body  will  I  speak  my  word.  I 
wish  them  neither  to  learn  afresh,  nor  teach  anew,  but  only 
to  bid  farewell  to  their  own  bodies, — and  thus  be  dumb. 

"Body  am  I,  and  soul" — ^so  saith  the  child.  And  why 
should  one  not  speak  like  children? 

But  the  awakened  one,  the  knowing  one,  saith:  "Body 
am  I  entirely,  and  nothing  more ;  and  soul  is  only  the  name 
of  something  in  the  body." 

The  body  is  a  big  sagacity,  a  plurality  with  one  sense,  a 
war  and  a  peace,  a  flock  and  a  shepherd. 

An  instrument  of  thy  body  is  also  thy  little  sagacity,  my 
brother,  which  thou  callest  "spirit"— a  little  instrument 
and  plaything  of  thy  big  sagacity. 


"Ego,"  sayest  thou,  and  art  proud  of  that  word.  But  the 
greater  thing — in  which  thou  art  unwilling  to  believe — 
is  thy  body  with  its  big  sagacity;  it  saith  not  "ego,"  but 
doeth  it. 

What  the  sense  feeleth,  what  the  spirit  discerneth,  hath 
never  its  end  in  itself.  But  sense  and  spirit  would  fain 
persuade  thee  that  they  are  the  end  of  all  things:  so  vain 
are  they. 

Instruments  and  playthings  are  sense  and  spirit:  behind 
them  there  is  still  the  Self.  The  Self  seeketh  with  the  eyes 
of  the  senses,  it  hearkeneth  also  with  the  ears  of  the  spirit. 

Ever  hearkeneth  the  Self,  and  seeketh ;  it  compareth,  mas- 
tereth,  conquereth,  and  destroyeth.  It  ruleth,  and  is  also  the 
ego's  ruler. 

Behind  thy  thoughts  and  feelings,  my  brother,  there  is  a 
mighty  lord,  an  unknown  sage — it  is  called  Self;  it  dwelleth 
in  thy  body,  it  is  thy  body. 

There  is  more  sagacity  in  thy  body  than  in  thy  best  wis- 
dom. And  who  then  knoweth  why  thy  body  requireth  just 
thy  best  wisdom? 

Thy  Self  laugheth  at  thine  ego,  and  its  proud  prancings. 
*'What  are  these  prancings  and  flights  of  thought  unto  me?'' 
it  saith  to  itself.  "A  by-way  to  my  purpose.  I  am  the 
leading-string  of  the  ego,  and  the  prompter  of  its  notions." 

The  Self  saith  unto  the  ego:  "Feel  pain!"  And  there- 
upon it  suffereth,  and  thinketh  how  it  may  put  an  end 
thereto — and  for  that  very  purpose  it  is  meant  to  think. 

The  Self  saith  unto  the  ego:  "Feel  pleasure!"  There- 
upon it  rejoiceth,  and  thinketh  how  it  may  ofttimes  rejoice] 
— and  for  that  very  purpose  it  is  meant  to  think. 

To  the  despisers  of  the  body  will  I  speak  a  word.  That 
they  despise  is  caused  by  their  esteem.  What  is  it  that 
created  esteeming  and  despising  and  worth  and  will? 

The  creating  Self  created  for  itself  esteeming  and  despis-l 
mg,  it  created  for  itself  joy  and  woe.  The  creating  body| 
created  for  itself  spirit,  as  a  hand  to  its  will. 

Even  in  your  folly  and  despising  ye  each  serve  your  Self,! 
ye  despisers  of  the  body.  I  tell  you,  your  very  Self  wanteth| 
to  die,  and  turneth  away  from  life. 

No  longer  can  your  Self  do  that  which  it  desireth  most:! 


52 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  I 


I 


V— JOYS  AND  PASSIONS 


S3 


— create  beyond  itself.  That  is  what  it  desireth  most;  that 
is  all  its  fervour. 

But  it  is  now  too  late  to  do  so: — so  your  Self  wisheth  to 
succumb,  ye  despisers  of  the  body. 

To  succumb — so  wisheth  your  Self ;  and  therefore  have  ye 
become  despisers  of  the  body.  For  ye  can  no  longer  create 
beyond  yourselves. 

And  therefore  are  ye  now  angry  with  life  and  with  the 
earth.  And  unconscious  envy  is  in  the  sidelong  look  of  your 
contempt. 

I  go  not  your  way,  ye  despisers  of  the  body!  Ye  are  no 
bridges  for  me  to  the  Superman! — 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


v.— JOYS   AND   PASSIONS 

My  brother,  when  thou  hast  a  virtue,  and  it  is  thine  own 
virtue,  thou  hast  it  in  common  with  no  one. 

To  be  sure,  thou  wouldst  call  it  by  name  and  caress  it; 
thou  wouldst  pull  its  ears  and  amuse  thyself  with  it. 

And  lol  Then  hast  thou  its  name  in  common  with  the 
people,  and  hast  become  one  of  the  people  and  the  herd 
with  thy  virtue! 

Better  for  thee  to  say:  "Ineffable  is  it,  and  nameless, 
that  which  is  pain  and  sweetness  to  my  soul,  and  also  the 
hunger  of  my  bowels." 

Let  thy  virtue  be  too  high  for  the  familiarity  of  names, 
and  if  thou  must  speak  of  it,  be  not  ashamed  to  stammer 
about  it. 

Thus  speak  and  stammer:  "That  is  my  good,  that  do  I 
love,  thus  doth  it  please  me  entirely,  thus  only  do  /  desire 
the  good. 

Not  as  the  law  of  a  God  do  I  desire  it,  not  as  a  human 
law  or  a  human  need  do  I  desire  it;  it  is  not  to  be  a  guide- 
post  for  me  to  superearths  and  paradises. 

An  earthly  virtue  is  it  which  I  love:  little  prudence  is 
therein,  and  the  least  everyday  wisdom. 

But  that  bird  built  its  nest  beside  me:  therefore,  I  love 
and  cherish  it— now  sitteth  it  beside  me  on  its  golden  eggs." 


Thus  shouldst  thou  stammer,  and  praise  thy  virtue. 
Once  hadst  thou  passions  and  calledst  them  evil.     But 
now  hast  thou  only  thy  virtues:   they  grew  out  of  thy 

passions.  ,     i_  c  *^^ 

Thou  implantedst  thy  highest  aim  into  the  heart  of  those 

passions:  then  became  they  thy  virtues  and  joys. 

And  though  thou  wert  of  the  race  of  the  hot-tempered,  or 
of  the  voluptuous,  or  of  the  fanatical,  or  the  vindictive; 

All  thy  passions  in  the  end  became  virtues,  and  all  thy 

devils  angels.  „       ,        t        i.        j 

Once  hadst  thou  wild  dogs  in  thy  cellar:  but  they  changed 

at  last  into  birds  and  charming  songstresses. 

Out  of  thy  poisons  brewedst  thou  balsam  for  thyself;  thy 

cow,  affliction,  milkedst  thou— now  drinketh  thou  the  sweet 

milk  of  her  udder.  ,       «^  u 

And  nothing  evil  groweth  in  thee  any  longer,  unless  it  be 

the  evil  that  groweth  out  of  the  conflict  of  thy  virtues. 
My  brother,  if  thou  be  fortunate,  then  wilt  thou  have  one 

virtue  and  no  more:  thus  goest  thou  easier  over  the  bridge. 
Illustrious  is  it  to  have  many  virtues,  but  a  hard  lot;  and 

many  a  one  hath  gone  into  the  wilderness  and  killed  hunse  f, 

because  he  was  weary  of  being  the  battie  and  battlefield 

of  virtues.  „^    ^r  u 

My  brother,  are  war  and  batüe  evil?  Necessary,  how- 
ever, is  the  evil;  necessary  are  the  envy  and  the  distrust  and 
the  backbiting  among  the  virtues.  ^   t.    i.-  u    ^ 

Lol  how  each  of  thy  virtues  is  covetous  of  the  highest 
place;  it  wanteth  thy  whole  spirit  to  be  its  herald,  it  want- 
eth  thy  whole  power,  in  wrath,  hatred,  and  love. 

Jealous  is  every  virtue  of  the  others,  and  a  dieadful  thmg 
is  jealousy.    Even  virtues  may  succumb  by  jealousy. 

He  whom  the  flame  of  jealousy  encompasseth,  tumeth  at 
last,  like  the  scorpion,  the  poisoned  sting  against  himself. 

Ah!  my  brother,  hast  thou  never  seen  a  virtue  backbite 

and  stab  itself?  ,  j        j  xi. 

Man  is  something  that  hath  to  be  surpassed:  and  there- 
fore Shalt  thou  love  thy  virtues,— for  thou  wilt  succumb  by 
them. — 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


54 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  I 


VI.— THE   PALE   CRIMINAL 


VI— THE  PALE  CRIMINAL 


55 


Ye  do  not  mean  to  slay,  ye  judges  and  sacrificers,  until 
the  animal  hath  bowed  its  head?  Lo!  the  pale  criminal  hath 
bowed  his  head:  out  of  his  eye  speaketh  the  great  contempt. 

**Mine  ego  is  something  which  is  to  be  surpassed:  mine 
ego  is  to  me  the  great  contempt  of  man":  so  speaketh  it  out 

of  that  eye. 

When  he  judged  himself — that  was  his  supreme  moment; 
let  not  the  exalted  one  relapse  again  into  his  low  estate! 

There  is  no  salvation  for  him  who  thus  suffereth  from 
himself,  unless  it  be  speedy  death. 

Your  slaying,  ye  judges,  shall  be  pity,  and  not  revenge; 
and  in  that  ye  slay,  see  to  it  that  ye  yourselves  justify  life! 

It  is  not  enough  that  ye  should  reconcile  with  him  whom 
ye  slay.  Let  your  sorrow  be  love  to  the  Superman:  thus  vnll 
ye  justify  your  own  survival! 

"Enemy"  shall  ye  say  but  not  "villain,"  "invalid"  shall 
ye  say  but  not  "wretch,"  "fool"  shall  ye  say  but  not 


"sinner." 


And  thou,  red  judge,  if  thou  would  say  audibly  all  thou 
hast  done  in  thought,  then  would  every  one  cry:  "Away 
with  the  nastiness  and  the  virulent  reptile!" 

But  one  thing  is  the  thought,  another  thing  is  the  deed, 
and  another  thing  is  the  idea  of  the  deed.  The  wheel  of 
causality  doth  not  roll  between  them. 

An  idea  made  this  pale  man  pale.  Adequate  was  he  for 
his  deed  when  he  did  it,  but  the  idea  of  it,  he  could  not 
endure  when^it  was  done. 

Evermore  did  he  now  see  himself  as  the  doer  of  one  deed. 
Madness,  I  call  this:   the  exception  reversed  itself  to  the 

rule  in  him. 

The  streak  of  chalk  bewitcheth  the  hen;  the  stroke  he 
struck  bewitched  his  weak  reason.    Madness  after  the  deed, 

I  call  this. 

Hearken,  ye  judges!  There  is  another  madness  besides, 
and  it  is  before  the  deed.  Ah!  ye  have  not  gone  deep 
enough  into  this  soul ! 

Thus  speaketh  the  red  judge:     "Why  did  this  criminal 


I 


commit  murder?  He  meant  to  rob."  I  tell  you,  however, 
that  his  soul  wanted  blood,  not  booty:  he  thirsted  for  the 
happiness  of  the  knife! 

But  his  weak  reason  understood  not  this  madness,  and  it 
persuaded  him.  "What  matter  about  blood!"  it  said; 
"wishest  thou  not,  at  least,  to  make  booty  thereby?  Or 
take  revenge?" 

And  he  hearkened  unto  his  weak  reason:  like  lead  lay  its 
words  upon  him — thereupon  he  robbed  when  he  murdered. 
He  did  not  mean  to  be  ashamed  of  his  madness. 

And  now  once  more  lieth  the  lead  of  his  guilt  upon  him, 
and  once  more  is  his  weak  reason  so  benumbed,  so  paralysed, 

and  so  dull. 

Could  he  only  shake  his  head,  then  would  his  burden  roll 
off;  but  who  shaketh  that  head? 

What  is  this  man?  A  mass  of  diseases  that  reach  out 
into  the  world  through  the  spirit;  there  they  want  to  get 

their  prey. 

What  is  this  man?  A  coil  of  wild  serpents  that  are 
seldom  at  peace  among  themselves — so  they  go  forth  apart 
and  seek  prey  in  the  world. 

Look  at  that  poor  body!  What  it  suffered  and  craved, 
the  poor  soul  interpreted  to  itself— it  interpreted  it  as  mur- 
derous desire,  and  eagerness  for  the  happiness  of  the  knife. 

Him  who  now  turneth  sick,  the  evil  overtaketh  which  is 
now  the  evil:  he  seeketh  to  cause  pain  with  that  which 
causeth  him  pain.  But  there  have  been  other  ages,  and 
another  evil  and  good. 

Once  was  doubt  evil,  and  the  will  to  Self.  Then  the 
invalid  became  a  heretic  or  sorcerer;  as  heretic  or  sorcerer 
he  suffered,  and  sought  to  cause  suffering. 

But  this  will  not  enter  your  ears;  it  hurteth  your  good 
people,  ye  tell  me.  But  what  doth  it  matter  to  me  about 
your  good  people! 

Many  things  in  your  good  people  cause  me  disgust,  and 
verily,  not  their  evil.  I  would  that  they  had  a  madness  by 
which  they  succumbed,  like  this  pale  criminal! 

Verily,  I  would  that  their  madness  were  called  truth,  or 
fidelity,  or  justice:  but  they  have  their  virtue  in  order  to 
live  long,  and  in  wretched  self-complacency. 


56  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  I 

I  am  a  railing  alongside  the  torrent;  whoever  is  able  to 
grasp  me  may  grasp  mel  Your  crutch,  however,  I  am 
not. — 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 

VII.— READING  AND   WRITING 

Of  all  that  is  written,  I  love  only  what  a  person  hath 
written  with  his  blood.  Write  with  blood,  and  thou  wilt 
find  that  blood  is  spirit. 

It  is  no  easy  task  to  understand  unfamiliar  blood;  I  hate 

the  reading  idlers.  , 

He  who  knoweth  the  reader,  doeth  nothing  more  for  the 
reader.    Another  century  of  readers— and  spirit  itself  will 

II    stink.  .      1.  .    ^u 

Every  one  being  allowed  to  learn  to  read,  rumeth  m  tue 

long  run  not  only  writing  but  also  thinking. 

Once  spirit  was  God,  then  it  became  man,  and  now  it  even 

becometh  populace. 

He  that  writeth  in  blood  and  proverbs  doth  not  want  to 

be  read,  but  learnt  by  heart. 

In  the  mountains  the  shortest  way  is  from  peak  to  peak, 
but  for  that  route  thou  must  have  long  legs.  Proverbs 
should  be  peaks,  and  those  spoken  to  should  be  big  and  tall. 

The  atmosphere  rare  and  pure,  danger  near  and  the  spirit 
full  of  a  joyful  wickedness:  thus  are  things  well  matched. 

I  want  to  have  goblins  about  me,  for  I  am  courageous. 
The  courage  which  scareth  away  ghosts,  createth  for  itself 
goblins— it  wanteth  to  laugh. 

I  no  longer  feel  in  common  with  you;  the  very  cloud 
which  I  see  beneath  me,  the  blackness  and  heaviness  at 
which  I  laugh— that  is  your  thunder-cloud. 

Ye  look  aloft  when  ye  long  for  exaltation;  and  I  look 
downward  because  I  am  exalted. 

Who  among  you  can  at  the  same  time  laugh  and  be  ex- 
alted? .     .       ,   ,,     ^    n 

He  who  climbeth  on  the  highest  mountains,  laugheth  at  all 

tragic  plays  and  tragic  realities. 


VIII— THE  TREE  ON  THE  HILL 


57 


1)1 


Courageous,  unconcerned,  scornful,  coercive — ^so  wisdom 
wisheth  us ;  she  is  a  woman,  and  ever  loveth  only  a  warrior. 

Ye  tell  me,  "Life  is  hard  to  bear."  But  for  what  purpose 
should  ye  have  your  pride  in  the  morning  and  your  resigna- 
tion in  the  evening? 

Life  is  hard  to  bear:  but  do  not  affect  to  be  so  delicate  1 
We  are  all  of  us  fine  sumpter  asses  and  assesses. 

What  have  we  in  common  with  the  rose-bud,  which 
trembleth  because  a  drop  of  dew  hath  formed  upon  it? 

It  is  true  we  love  life;  not  because  we  are  wont  to  live, 
but  because  we  are  wont  to  love. 

There  is  always  some  madness  in  love.  But  there  is 
always,  also,  some  method  in  madness. 

And  to  me  also,  who  appreciate  life,  the  butterflies,  and 
soap-bubbles,  and  whatever  is  like  them  amongst  us,  seem 
most  to  enjoy  happiness. 

To  see  these  light,  foolish,  pretty,  lively  little  sprites  flit 
about — that  moveth  Zarathustra  to  tears  and  songs. 

I  should  only  believe  in  a  God  that  would  know  how  ta^ 

dance.  ^^ 

And  when  I  saw  my  devil,  I  found  him  serious,  thorough, 
profound,  solemn:  he  was  the  spirit  of  gravity— through 
him  all  things  fall. 

Not  by  wrath,  but  by  laughter,  do  we  slay.  Come,  let 
us  slay  the  spirit  of  gravity! 

I  learned  to  walk;  since  then  have  I  let  myself  run.  I 
learned  to  fly;  since  then  I  do  not  need  pushing  in  order  to 
move  from  a  spot. 

Now  am  I  light,  now  do  I  fly;  now  do  I  see  myself  under 
myself.    Now  there  danceth  a  God  in  me. —  ^ 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


VIII.— THE   TREE   ON   THE   HILL 

Zarathustra's  eye  had  perceived  that  a  certain  youth 
avoided  him.    And  as  he  walked  alone  one  evening  over  the 
hills  surrounding  the  town  called  "The  Pied  Cow,"  behold,,^ 
there  found  he  the  youth  sitting  leaning  against  a  tree,  and  * 


% 


I 


58  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  I 

eazine  with  wearied  look  into  the  valley.    Zarathustra  there- 
upon laWhdd  of  the  tree  beside  which  the  youth  sat,  and 

^^«If  ?wished  to  shake  this  tree  with  my  hands,  I  should 

°°But  t:^nä,  which  we  see  not,  troubleth  and  .berjdeth 
it  as  it  listeth.    We  are  sorest  bent  and  troubled  by  invisible 

^^hereupon  the  youth  arose  disconcerted,  and  said:     "I 
hear  Zarathustra,  and  just  now  was  I  thinking  of  himl 
Zarathustra  answered:  .    . 

"Why  art  thou  frightened  on  that  account?— But  it  is 

the  same  with  man  as  with  the  tree.  , .  ,      , 

The  more  he  seeketh  to  rise  into  the  height  and  light,  the 
more  vigorously  do  his  roots  struggle  earthward,  downward, 
into  the  dark  and  deep— into  the  evil.  . 

"Yea,  into  the  evil!"  cried  the  youth.  "How  is  it  pos- 
sible that  thou  hast  discovered  my  soul?" 

Zarathustra  smiled,  and  said:  "Many  a  soul  one  wiH 
never  discover,  unless  one  first  invent  it. 

"Yea  into  the  evil!"  cried  the  youth  once  more. 

"Thou  saidst  the  truth,  Zarathustra.  I  trust  myself  no 
longer  since  I  sought  to  rise  into  the  height,  and  nobody 
trusteth  me  any  longer;  how  doth  that  happen? 

I  change  too  quickly:  my  to-day  refuteth  my  yesterday. 
I  often  overleap  the  steps  when  I  clamber;  for  so  doing, 

none  of  the  steps  pardon  me.  cnpaketh 

When  aloft,  I  find  myself  always  alone.   No  one  spe^th 

unto  me;  the  frost  of  solitude  maketh  me  tremble.    What 

do  I  seek  on  the  height?  .  *r.„^tv,^rthf 

My  contempt  and  my  longing  increase  together  Üie 
higher  I  clamber,  the  more  do  I  despise  him  who  clamber- 
eth  What  doth  he  seek  on  the  height? 
'how  ashamed  I  am  of  my  clambering  and  f  mWing! 
How  I  mock  at  my  violent  panting!  How  I  hate  him  who 
fliethl    How  tired  I  am  on  the  height! 

H^^^^^  X  youth  was  silent.     And  Zarathustra  contem^ 
plated  the  tree  beside  which  they  stood,  and  spake  ^^^^^ 

"This  tree  standeth  lonely  here  on  the  hills,   it  hatn 
grown  up  high  above  man  and  beast. 


VIII— THE  TREE  ON  THE  HILL 


59 


And  if  it  wanted  to  speak,  it  would  have  none  who  could 
understand  it:  so  high  hath  it  grown. 

Now  it  waiteth  and  waiteth, — for  what  doth  it  wait?  It 
dwelleth  too  close  to  the  seat  of  the  clouds;  it  waiteth  per- 
haps for  the  first  lightning?" 

When  Zarathustra  had  said  this,  the  youth  called  out  with 
violent  gestures:  "Yea,  Zarathustra,  thou  speakest  the 
truth.  My  destruction  I  longed  for,  when  I  desired  to  be 
on  the  height,  and  thou  art  the  lightning  for  which  I  waited  1 
Lo!  what  have  I  been  since  thou  hast  appeared  amongst 
us?  It  is  mine  envy  of  thee  that  hath  destroyed  me!"— 
Thus  spake  the  youth,  and  wept  bitterly.  Zarathustra, 
however,  put  his  arm  about  him,  and  led  the  youth  away 

with  him. 

And  when  they  had  walked  a  while  together,  Zarathustra 

began  to  speak  thus: 

It  rendeth  my  heart.  Better  than  thy  words  express  it, 
thine  eyes  tell  me  all  thy  danger. 

As  yet  thou  art  not  free;  thou  still  seekest  freedom.  Too 
unslept  hath  thy  seeking  made  thee,  and  too  wakeful. 

On  the  open  height  wouldst  thou  be;  for  the  stars  thirsteth 
thy  soul.    But  thy  bad  impulses  also  thirst  for  freedom. 

Thy  wild  dogs  want  liberty;  they  bark  for  joy  in  their 
cellar  when  thy  spirit  endeavoureth  to  open  all  prison  doors. 

Still  art  thou  a  prisoner — it  seemeth  to  me — ^who  deviseth 
liberty  for  himself:  ah!  sharp  becometh  the  soul  of  such 
prisoners,  but  also  deceitful  and  wicked. 

To  purify  himself,  is  still  necessary  for  the  freedman  of 
the  spirit.  Much  of  the  prison  and  the  mould  still  remaineth 
in  him:  pure  hath  his  eye  still  to  become. 

Yea,  I  know  thy  danger.  But  by  my  love  and  hope  I 
conjure  thee:  cast  not  thy  love  and  hope  away! 

Noble  thou  feelest  thyself  still,  and  noble  others  also 
feel  thee  still,  though  they  bear  thee  a  grudge  and  cast  evil 
looks.    Know  this,  that  to  everybody  a  noble  one  standeth 

in  the  way. 

Also  to  the  good,  a  noble  one  standeth  in  the  way:  and 
even  when  they  call  him  a  good  man,  they  want  thereby  to 

put  him  aside. 

The  new,  would  the  noble  man  create,  and  a  new  virtue. 


DC— THE  PREACHERS  OF  DEATH 


6i 


60  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  I 

The  old,  wanteth  the  good  man,  and  that  the  old  should  be' 

'^T^his  not  the  danger  of  the  noble  man  to  turn  a  good 
man  but  l(^t  he  should  become  a  blusterer,  a  scoffer,  or  a 

^^IJL?  I  have  known  noble  ones  who  lost  their  highest  hope. 
And  then  they  disparaged  all  high  hopes. 

ThSlivä  they  shamelessly  in  temporary  pleasures,  and 

beyond  the  day  had  hardly  an  aim-  , 

«Spirit  is  also  voluptuousness,»-said  ^»ey.    Then  broke 
the  Sgs  of  their  spirit;  and  now  it  creepeth  about,  and 

defileth  where  it  gnaweth.  ^      1,      „..  u„*  =pnci,alists 

Once  they  thought  of  becommg  heroes;  but  sensualists 

aretiievnow.    A  trouble  and  a  terror  is  the  hero  to  them. 
Bu'by  my  love  and  hope  I  conjure  fee:  <^t  not  away 

the  hero  in  thy  soul!    Maintain  holy  thy  highest  hopel- 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


DC.— THE  PREACHERS  OF  DEATH 

There  are  preachers  of  death:  and  the  earth  is  full  of 
those  to  whom  desistance  from  life  must  be  preach^. 

Full  is  the  earth  of  the  superfluous;  marred  s  life  by  tte 
many-too-many.^  May  they  be  decoyed  out  of  this  hfe  by 

*^«The^veUw  ones":  so  are  called  the  preachers  of  death, 
or  "the  black  ones."    But  I  will  show  them  unto  you  m 

other  colours  besides.  .      *  -^  ♦v,»^=<»u,p« 

There  are  the  terrible  ones  who  carry  about  in  themselv^ 
the  beast  of  prey,  and  have  no  choice  except  lusts  or  self- 
laceration.    And  even  their  lusts  are  self-laceration 

They  have  not  yet  become  men,  those  terrible  ones,  may 

they  preach  desistance  from  life,  and  pass  away  themselv^l 

There  are  the  spiritually  consumptive  ones:  hardly  are 

they  born  when  thfy  begin  to  die,  and  long  for  doctrines  of 

lassitude  and  renunciation.  ,     , ,  r  ^i.^,^ 

Th^  would  fain  be  dead,  and  we  should  approve  of  their 


wish!  Let  us  beware  of  awakening  those  dead  ones,  and  of 
damaging  those  living  coffins  1 

They  meet  an  invalid,  or  an  old  man,  or  a  corpse — ^and 
immediately  they  say:    "Life  is  refuted  1" 

But  they  only  are  refuted,  and  their  eye,  which  seeth  only 
one  aspect  of  existence. 

Shrouded  in  thick  melancholy,  and  eager  for  the  little 
casualties  that  bring  death:  thus  do  they  wait,  and  clench 

their  teeth. 

Or  else,  they  grasp  at  sweetmeats,  and  mock  at  their 
childishness  thereby:  they  cling  to  their  straw  of  life,  and 
mock  at  their  still  clinging  to  it. 

Their  wisdom  speaketh  thus:  "A  fool,  he  who  remaineth 
alive;  but  so  far  are  we  fools!     And  that  is  the  foolishest 

thing  in  life!» 

"Life  is  only  suffering":  so  say  others,  and  he  not.  Then 
see  to  it  that  ye  cease!  See  to  it  that  the  Ufe  ceaseth  which 
is  only  suffering! 

And  let  this  be  the  teaching  of  your  virtue:  "Thou  shalt 
slay  thyself!    Thou  shalt  steal  away  from  thyself!  "— 

"Lust  is  sin,"— so  say  some  who  preach  death— "let  us  go 
apart  and  beget  no  children!" 

"Giving  birth  is  troublesome,"— say  others— "why  still 
give  birth?  One  beareth  only  the  unfortunate!"  And  they 
also  are  preachers  of  death. 

"Pity  is  necessary,"— so  saith  a  third  party.  "Take  what 
I  have!    Take  what  I  am!     So  much  less  doth  life  bind 

me!" 

Were  they  consistently  pitiful,  then  would  they  make 
their  neighbours  sick  of  life.  To  be  wicked— that  would 
be  their  true  goodness. 

But  they  want  to  be  rid  of  life;  what  care  they  if  they 
bind  others  still  faster  with  their  chains  and  gifts!— 

And  ye  also,  to  whom  life  is  rough  labour  and  disquiet, 
are  ye  not  very  tired  of  life?    Are  ye  not  very  ripe  for  the 

sermon  of  deaüi? 

All  ye  to  whom  rough  labour  is  dear,  and  the  rapid,  new, 
and  strange— ye  put  up  with  yourselves  badly;  your  dili- 
gence is  flight,  and  the  will  to  self-forgetfulness. 

If  ye  believed  more  in  life,  then  would  ye  devote  your- 


62  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  I 

selves  less  to  the  momentary.    But  for  waiting  Ve  have  not 
!«^,,;w  caoacitv  in  you— nor  even  for  idhngl 
Xfr5^h?re  rSin/eth  the  voice  of  those^^«  P^,!f ^^ 
deS -Tld  the  earth  is  full  of  those  to  whom  death  hath  to 

*^0Älternal";  it  is  all  the  same  to  me-if  only  they 
pass  away  quickly!— 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 

X.— WAR  AND  WARRIORS 

By  our  best  enemies  we  do  not  want  to  be  spared  nor  by 
those  dther  whom  we  love  from  the  very  heart.    So  let  me 

I!    *^U"b Je^rr^  wan     I  love  you  ^^ornf.e^,^;:^. 
I  am%nd  was  ever,  your  counterpart  ^^^  I  am  also  your 

'-iZ^^eVS^l^feCy^y^^^^^^^^  Ye  are  not 
great  enough  not  to  know  of  batre^  and  envy.  Then  be 
arpat  enough  not  to  be  ashamed  of  them!  t  r^ra-^, 

^  AndTf  le  cannot  be  saints  of  knowledge,  then,  I  pray 
you  be  atleast  its  warriors.    They  are  the  compamons  and 

^Te"  mani  ^s^cSSie^ tSd  I  but  see  many  warriojl 
"Uniform^  one  calleth  what  they  wear;  may  it  not  be  uni- 

'"''^e^^lt't^S'^^s^^s  ever  seek  for  an  enemy- 
for  Jot  enemy     And  with  lorae  of  you  there  is  hatred  at 

first  sight.  ^^^    e  ^age,  and 

cumb,  your  uprightness  shall  ^"^  sno"  ^ars— and  the 

Ye  shall  love  peace  as  a  means  to  new  wai= 

short  peace  more  than  the  long. 
You  I  advise  not  to  work,  but  to  ßg^t.    You  1  advise  no^ 

to  p^ace,  but  to  victory.   Let  your  work  be  a  fight,  let  your 

%"e':an  ^nl^'^i  silent  and  sit  peacefully  when  one  hath 


X— WAR  AND  WARRIORS 


63 


H 


arrow  and  bow;  otherwise  one  prateth  and  quarrelleth.  Let 
your  peace  be  a  victory! 

Ye  say  it  is  the  good  cause  which  halloweth  even  war?  I 
say  unto  you :  it  is  the  good  war  which  halloweth  every  cause. 

War  and  courage  have  done  more  great  things  than 
charity.  Not  your  sympathy,  but  your  bravery  hath 
hitherto  saved  the  victims. 

"What  is  good?"  ye  ask.  To  be  brave  is  good.  Let  the 
little  girls  say:  "To  be  good  is  what  is  pretty,  and  at  the 
same  time  touching." 

They  call  you  heartless:  but  your  heart  is  true,  and  I 
love  the  bashfulness  of  your  goodwill.  Ye  are  ashamed  of 
your  flow,  and  others  are  ashamed  of  their  ebb. 

Ye  are  ugly?  Well  then,  my  brethren,  take  the  sublime 
about  you,  the  mantle  of  the  ugly! 

And  when  your  soul  becometh  great,  then  doth  it  become 
haughty,  and  in  your  sublimity  there  is  wickedness.  I 
know  you. 

In  wickedness  the  haughty  man  and  the  weakling  meet. 
But  they  misunderstand  one  another.    I  know  you. 

Ye  shall  only  have  enemies  to  be  hated,  but  not  enemies 
to  be  despised.  Ye  must  be  proud  of  your  enemies;  then, 
the  successes  of  your  enemies  are  also  your  successes. 

Resistance — that  is  the  distinction  of  the  slave.  Let  your 
distinction  be  obedience.  Let  your  commanding  itself  be 
obeying! 

To  the  good  warrior  soundeth  "thou  shalt"  pleasanter 
than  "I  will."  And  all  that  is  dear  unto  you,  ye  shall  first 
have  it  commanded  unto  you. 

Let  your  love  to  life  be  love  to  your  highest  hope;  and 
let  your  highest  hope  be  the  highest  thought  of  life! 

Your  highest  thought,  however,  ye  shall  have  it  com- 
manded unto  you  by  me — ^and  it  is  this:  man  is  something 
that  is  to  be  surpassed. 

So  live  your  life  of  obedience  and  of  war!  What  matter 
about  long  life!    What  warrior  wisheth  to  be  spared! 

I  spare  you  not,  I  love  you  from  my  very  heart,  my 
brethren  in  war!— 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


7 


II 


i  I 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  I 


XI.— THE  NEW  IDOL 

Somewhere  there  are  still  peoples  and  herds,  but  not  with 
us  mv  brethren:  here  there  are  states. 

A  state?  What  is  that?  Well!  open  now  your  ears  unto 
me,  for  now  will  I  say  unto  you  my  word  concernmg  tue 

^^A^state^s  calTed  the  coldest  of  all  cold  monsters.    Coldly 
lieth  it  also;  and  this  lie  creepeth  from  its  mouth:      1,  tue 

state,  am  the  people."  , 

It  is  a  lie!    Creators  were  they  who  created  peoples,  and 

hung  a  faith  and  a  love  over  them:  thus  they  served  life. 
Destroyers,  are  they  who  lay  snares  for  many,  and  call  it 

the  state:  they  hang  a  sword  and  a  hundred  cravmgs  over 

Where  there  is  still  a  people,  there  the  state  is  not  under- 
stood, but  hated  as  the  evil  eye,  and  as  sin  against  laws  and 

^"tMs  sign  I  give  unto  you:  every  people  speaketh  its  lan- 
guage of  good  and  evil:  this  its  neighbour  understandeth 
lot     Its  language  hath  it  devised  for  itself  m  laws  and 

^^uTthe  state  lieth  in  all  languages  of  good  ai»d  evil;  and 
whatever  it  saith  it  Ueth;  and  whatever  it  hath  it  hath 

%d^e  is  everything  in  it;  with  stolen  teeth  it  biteth,  the 
bitmg  one.    False  are  even  its  bowels.  , 

Confusion  of  language  of  good  and  evü;  this  sign  I  give 
unto  you  as  the  sign  of  the  state.  Venly,  the  will  to  d^th, 
indicateth  this  signl  Verüy,  it  beckoneth  unto  the  preachers 

°  M^y  too  many  are  bom:  for  the  superfluous  ones  was 

the  state  devised!  .     ,  ^  _  , 

See  just  how  it  enticeth  them  to  it,  the  mMy-too-many! 

How  it  swalloweth  and  cheweth  and  recheweth  them  I 
"On  earth  there  is  nothing  greater  than  I:  it  is  I  who  am 

the  regulating  finger  of  God"-thus  roar eth  the  mon-ter 

And  not  only  the  long-eared  and  short-sighted  faU  upon 

their  knees! 


XI— THE  NEW  IDOL 


65 


,' 


Ah!  even  in  your  ears,  ye  great  souls,  it  whispereth  its 
gloomy  liesl  Ah!  it  findeth  out  the  rich  hearts  which 
willingly  lavish  themselves  1 

Yea,  it  findeth  you  out  too,  ye  conquerors  of  the  old  God! 
Weary  ye  became  of  the  conflict,  and  now  your  weariness 
serveth  the  new  idol! 

Heroes  and  honourable  ones,  it  would  fain  set  up  around 
it,  the  new  idol !  Gladly  it  basketh  in  the  sunshine  of  good 
consciences, — the  cold  monster! 

Everything  will  it  give  you,  if  ye  worship  it,  the  new  idol : 
thus  it  purchaseth  the  lustre  of  your  virtue,  and  the  glance 
of  your  proud  eyes. 

It  seeketh  to  allure  by  means  of  you,  the  many-too-many! 
Yea,  a  hellish  artifice  hath  here  been  devised,  a  death-horse 
jingling  with  the  trappings  of  divine  honours! 

Yea,  a  dying  for  many  hath  here  been  devised,  which 
glorifieth  itself  as  life:  verily,  a  hearty  service  unto  all 
preachers  of  death! 

The  state,  I  call  it,  where  all  are  poison-drinkers,  the  good 
and  the  bad:  the  state,  where  all  lose  themselves,  the  good 
and  the  bad:  the  state,  where  the  slow  suicide  of  all — ^is 
called  "life." 

Just  see  these  supyerfluous  ones!  They  steal  the  works  of 
the  inventors  and  the  treasures  of  the  wise.  Culture,  they 
call  their  theft — and  everything  becometh  sickness  and 
trouble  unto  them! 

Just  see  these  superfluous  ones!  Sick  are  they  always; 
they  vomit  their  bile  and  call  it  a  newspaper.  They  devour 
one  another,  and  cannot  even  digest  themselves. 

Just  see  these  superfluous  ones!  Wealth  they  acquire 
and  become  poorer  thereby.  Power  they  seek  for,  and 
above  all,  the  lever  of  power,  much  mcmey — these  impotent 
ones! 

See  them  clamber,  these  nimble  apes!  They  clamber 
over  one  another,  and  thus  scuffle  into  the  mud  and  the 
abyss. 

Towards  the  throne  they  all  strive:  it  is  their  madness — 
as  if  happiness  sat  on  the  throne !  Ofttimes  sitteth  filth  on 
the  throne, — and  ofttimes  also  the  throne  on  filth. 

Madmen  they  all  seem  to  me,  and  clambering  apes,  and 


|1|    ! 


66  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  I 

too  eager.  Badly  smelleth  their  idol  to  me,  the  cold  mon- 
ster- badly  they  all  smell  to  me,  these  idolaters. 

My  brethren,  will  ye  suffocate  in  the  fumes  of  their  maws 
and  appetites  1     Better  break  the  windows  and  jump  mto 

%Tgo  oul  of  the  way  of  the  bad  odourl    Withdraw  from 

%fgÄ  of  fhe  waTo  "the  lad  odour!  Withdraw  from 
the  steam  of  these  human  sacrifices  1  rr^^*,, 

Ooen  still  remaineth  the  earth  for  great  souls.  Empty 
are  still  many  sites  for  lone  ones  and  twain  ones,  around 
which  floateth  the  odour  of  tranquil  seas. 

Open  still  remaineth  a  free  life  for  great  souls.  Verily, 
he  who  possesseth  little  is  so  much  the  less  possessed: 
blessed  be  moderate  poverty!  .„„„^^fi. 

There  where  the  state  ceaseth— there  only  commenceth 
the  man  who  is  not  superfluous:  there  commenceth  the  song 
of  the  necessary  ones,  the  single  and  irreplaceable  melody. 

There,  where  the  state  ceaseth— ^r^y  look  thither,  my 
brethren!  Do  ye  not  see  it,  the  rainbow  and  the  bridges 
of  Ae  Superman? — 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


XII.— THE  FLIES  IN  THE  MARKET-PLACE 

Flee,  my  friend,  into  thy  solitude!     I  see  thee  deafened 
with  the  noise  of  the  great  men,  and  stung  all  over  with  the 

stings  of  the  little  ones.  ^  ,      •^    ^     •*!, 

Admirably  do  forest  and  rock  know  how  to  be  silent  wiA 

thee      Resemble  again  the  tree  which  thou  lovest,  the 

?road-bfancC  one^silenüy  and  attentively  it  o'erhangeth 

'^Where  solitude  endeth,  there  beginneth  the  market-place; 
and  where  the  market-place  beginneth  there  beginneth  also 
the  noise  of  the  great  actors,  and  the  buzzing  of  the  poison- 

In  the  world  even  the  best  things  are  worthless  without 


r 


XII— THE  FLIES  IN  THE  MARKET-PLACE     67 

those  who  represent  them:  those  representers,  the  people 
call  great  men. 

Little  do  the  people  miderstand  what  is  great — that  is  to\ 
say,  the  creating  agency.     But  they  have  a  taste  for  adl 
representers  and  actors  of  great  things.  | 

Around  the  devisers  of  new  values  revolveth  the  world: — 
invisibly  it  revolveth.     But  around  the  actors  revolve  the^ 
people  and  the  glory:  such  is  the  course  of  things.  / 

Spirit,  hath  the  actor,  but  little  conscience  of  the  spirit. 
He  believeth  always  in  that  wherewith  he  maketh  believe 
most  strongly — in  himself! 

To-morrow  he  hath  a  new  belief,  and  the  day  after,  one  ^ 
still  newer.  Sharp  perceptions  hath  he,  like  the  people,  and  | 
changeable  humours.  ■ 

To  upset — that  meaneth  with  him  to  prove.  To  drive 
mad — that  meaneth  with  him  to  convince.  And  blood  is 
counted  by  him  as  the  best  of  all  arguments. 

A  truth  which  only  glideth  into  fine  ears,  he  calleth  false- 
hood and  trumpery.  Verily,  he  believeth  only  in  Gods  that 
make  a  great  noise  in  the  world ! 

Full  of  clattering  buffoons  is  the  market-place, — and  the 
people  glory  in  their  great  men!  These  are  for  them  the 
masters  of  the  hour. 

But  the  hour  presseth  them;  so  they  press  thee.  And 
also  from  thee  they  want  Yea  or  Nay.  Alas!  thou  wouldst 
set  thy  chair  betwixt  For  and  Against? 

On  account  of  those  absolute  and  impatient  ones,  be  not 
jealous,  thou  lover  of  truth!  Never  yet  did  truth  cling  to 
the  arm  of  an  absolute  one. 

On  account  of  those  abrupt  ones,  return  into  thy  se- 
curity: only  in  the  market-place  is  one  assailed  by  Yea?  or 
Nay? 

Slow  is  the  experience  of  all  deep  fountains:  long  have 
they  to  wait  until  they  knoyf  what  hath  fallen  into  their  depths. 

Away  from  the  market-place  and  from  fame  taketh  place 
all  that  is  great:  away  from  the  market-place  and  from 
fame  have  ever  dwelt  the  devisers  of  new  values. 

Flee,  my  friend,  into  thy  solitude:  I  see  thee  stung  all 
over  by  the  poisonous  flies.  Flee  thither,  where  a  rough, 
strong  breeze  blowethl 


I      68  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  I 

Flee  into  thy  solitude!  Thou  hast  lived  too  closely  to  the 
small  and  the  pitiable.  Flee  from  their  invisible  vengeance  1 
Towards  thee  they  have  nothing  but  vengeance. 

Raise  no  longer  an  arm  against  theml  Innumerable  are 
they,  and  it  is  not  thy  lot  to  be  a  fly-flap. 

Innumerable  are  the  small  and  pitiable  ones;  and  of  many 
a  proud  structure,  rain-drops  and  weeds  have  been  the  rum. 

Thou  art  not  stone;  but  already  hast  thou  become  hollow 
by  the  numerous  drops.    Thou  wilt  yet  break  and  burst  by 

the  numerous  drops.  , ,    j.      t    — . 

Exhausted  I  see  thee,  by  poisonous  flies;  bleedmg  1  see 

thee,  and  torn  at  a  hundred  spots;  and  thy  pride  wUl  not 

even  upbraid.  .     „  .  u\^^a 

Blood  they  would  have  from  thee  m  all  innocence;  blood 

their  bloodless  souls  crave  for— and  they  sting,  therefore,  m 

all  innocence.  '  ^  r      Ji , 

But  thou,  profound  one,  thou  sufferest  too  profoundly 

even  from  small  wounds;  and  ere  thou  hadst  recovered,  the 

same  poison-worm  crawled  over  thy  hand.  „  ,  ,  , 

Too  proud  art  thou  to  kill  these  sweet-tooths.    But  take 

care  lest  it  be  thy  fate  to  suffer  all  their  poisonous  injustice  I 
They  buzz  around  thee  also  with  their  praise:  obtrusive- 

ness,  is  their  praise.    They  want  to  be  close  to  thy  skin  and 

thy  blood.  .       ^   ,        .    «i    ^t. 

They  flatter  thee,  as  one  flattereth  a  God  or  devil;  Üiey 
whimper  before  thee,  as  before  a  God  or  devil.  What  doth 
it  come  tol  Flatterers  are  they,  and  whimperers,  and  noth- 
ing more.  .  ,  •  ui_ 

Often,  also,  do  they  show  themselves  to  thee  as  amiable 
ones.  But  that  hath  ever  been  the  prudence  of  the  cow- 
ardly.   Yea!  the  cowardly  are  wise!    ^     ,   .      .  .,    , 

They  think  much  about  thee  with  their  circumscnbed 
souls— thou  art  always  suspected  by  them!  Whatever  is 
much  thought  about  is  at  last  thought  suspicious. 

They  punish  thee  for  all  thy  virtues.  They  pardon  thee 
in  their  inmost  hearts  only— for  thine  errors. 

Because  thou  art  gentle  and  of  upright  character,  thou 
sayest:     "Blameless  are  they  for  their  small  existence. 
But  their  circumscribed  souls  think:    "Blamable  is  all  great 
existence."  * 


XIII— CHASTITY 


69 


■  \ 


Even  when  thou  art  gentle  towards  them,  they  still  feel 
themselves  despised  by  thee;  and  they  repay  thy  beneficence 
with  secret  maleficence. 

Thy  silent  pride  is  always  counter  to  their  taste;  they 
rejoice  if  once  thou  be  humble  enough  to  be  frivolous. 

What  we  recognise  in  a  man,  we  also  irritate  in  him. 
Therefore  be  on  your  guard  against  the  small  ones! 

In  thy  presence  they  feel  thernselves  small,  and  their 
baseness  gleameth  and  gloweth  against  thee  in  invisible 
vengeance. 

Sawest  thou  not  how  often  they  became  dumb  when  thou 
approachedst  them,  and  how  their  energy  /eft  them  like  the 
smoke  of  an  extinguishing  fire? 

Yea,  my  friend,  the  bad  conscience  art  thou  of  thy  neigh- 
bours; for  they  are  unworthy  of  thee.  Therefore  they  hate 
thee,  and  would  fain  suck  thy  blood. 

Thy  neighbours  will  always  be  poisonous  flies;  what  is 
great  in  thee — that  itself  must  make  them  more  poisonous, 
and  always  more  fly-like. 

Flee,  my  friend,  into  thy  solitude — and  thither,  where  a 
rough  strong  breeze  bloweth.  It  is  not  thy  lot  to  be  a  fly- 
flap. — 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


XIII.— CHASTITY 

I  love  the  forest.  It  is  bad  to  live  in  cities:  there,  there 
are  too  many  of  the  lustful. 

Is  it  not  better  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  a  murderer,  than 
into  the  dreams  of  a  lustful  woman? 

And  jus'  look  at  these  men:  their  eye  saith  it — they  know 
nothing  be'  ter  on  earth  than  to  lie  with  a  woman. 

Filth  is  It  the  bottom  of  their  souls;  and  alas!  if  their 
filth  hath  still  spirit  in  it! 

Would  that  ye  were  perfect — at  least  as  animals!  But  to 
animals  belongeth  innocence. 

Do  I  counsel  you  to  slay  your  instincts?  I  counsel  you 
to  innocence  in  your  instincts. 


\ 


i( 


l\ 


70  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  I 

Do  I  counsel  you  to  chastity?    Chastity  is  a  virtue  with 

some,  but  with  many  almost  a  vice.  .  ,  ,    ^ ,  ^v^,k 

These  are  continent,  to  be  sure:  but  doggish  lust  looketb 

enviously  out  of  all  that  they  do.  ^  .  .    .1.  •       ^A 

Even  into  the  heights  of  their  virtue  and  mto  their  cold 
spirit  doth  this  creature  follow  them,  with  its  discord.  ^ 

And  how  nicely  can  doggish  lust  beg  for  a  piece  of  spirit, 
when  a  piece  of  flesh  is  denied  it!      ,     ,    ,     ^      .^    t^  ^  t 

Ye  love  tragedies  and  all  that  breaketh  the  heart?  But  1 
am  distrustful  of  your  doggish  lust. 

Ye  have  too  cruel  eyes,  and  ye  look  wantonly  towards  the 
sufferers.  Hath  not  your  lust  just  disguised  itself  and  taken 
the  name  of  fellow-suffering? 

And  also  this  parable  give  I  unto  you:  Not  a  few  who 
meant  to  cast  out  their  devil,  went  thereby  mto  the  swine 

^  xi^whom  chastity  is  difficult,  it  is  to  be  dissuaded:  lest  it 
become  the  road  to  hell— to  filth  and  lust  of  soul. 

Do  I  speak  of  filthy  things?    That  is  not  the  worst  thing 

for  me  to  do.  ,         ,       ..  .     il  n  «  ^^fu 

Not  when  the  truth  is  filthy,  but  when  it  is  shallow,  doth 

the  discerning  one  go  unwillingly  into  its  waters. 

Verily  there  are  chaste  ones  from  their  very  nature;  they 
are  gentler  of  heart,  and  laugh  better  and  of tener  than  you 

They  laugh  also  at  chastity,  and  ask:    "What  is  chastity? 

Is  chastity  not  folly?    But  the  folly  came  unto  us,  and 

not  we  unto  it.  , ,       ,  «i.  j_,^n^4.Vi 

We  offered  that  guest  harbour  and  heart:  now  it  dwelietü 

with  us— let  it  stay  as  long  as  it  willl"— 


XIV— THE  FRIEND 


71 


Uli         Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


XIV.— THE  FRIEND 

"One,  is  always  too  many  about  me"— thinketh  the 
anchorite.     "Always  once  one-that  maketh  two  m  the 

long  run!"  ,     ,  ...  i^^^ 

I  and  me  are  always  too  earnestly  m  conversation,  how 

could  it  be  endured,  if  there  were  not  a  friend? 


The  friend  of  the  anchorite  is  always  the  third  one:  the 
third  one  is  the  cork  which  preventeth  the  conversation  of 
the  two  sinking  into  the  depth. 

Ah  I  there  are  too  many  depths  for  all  anchorites.  There- 
fore, do  they  long  so  much  for  a  friend,  and  for  his 
elevation. 

Our  faith  in  others  betrayeth  wherein  we  would  fain 
have  faith  in  ourselves.  Our  longing  for  a  friend  is  our 
betrayer. 

And  often  with  our  love  we  want  merely  to  overleap 
envy.  And  often  we  attack  and  make  ourselves  enemies, 
to  conceal  that  we  are  vulnerable. 

"Be  at  least  mine  enemy!" — thus  speaketh  the  true  rev- 
erence, which  doth  not  venture  to  solicit  friendship. 

If  one  would  have  a  friend,  then  must  one  also  be  will- 
ing to  wage  war  for  him:  and  in  order  to  wage  war,  one 
must  be  capable  of  being  an  enemy. 

One  ought  still  to  honour  the  enemy  in  one's  friend. 
Canst  thou  go  nigh  unto  thy  friend,  and  not  go  over 
to  him? 

In  one's  friend  one  shall  have  one's  best  enemy.  Thou 
shalt  be  closest  unto  him  with  thy  heart  when  thou  with- 
standest  him. 

Thou  wouldst  wear  no  raiment  before  thy  friend?  It  is 
in  honour  of  thy  friend  that  thou  showest  thyself  to  him 
as  thou  art?  But  he  wisheth  thee  to  the  devil  on  that 
account! 

He  who  maketh  no  secret  of  himself  shocketh:  so  much 
reason  have  ye  to  fear  nakedness!  Aye,  if  ye  were  Gods, 
ye  could  then  be  ashamed  of  clothing! 

Thou  canst  not  adorn  thyself  fine  enough  for  thy  friend; 
for  thou  shalt  be  unto  him  an  arrow  and  a  longing  for 
the  Superman. 

Sawest  thou  ever  thy  friend  asleep — to  know  how  he 
looketh?  What  is  usually  the  countenance  of  thy  friend? 
It  is  thine  own  countenance,  in  a  coarse  and  imperfect 
mirror. 

Sawest  thou  ever  thy  friend  asleep?  Wert  thou  not 
dismayed  at  thy  friend  looking  so?  O  my  friend,  man  is 
something  that  hath  to  be  surpassed. 


■I* 


i 


72  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  I 

In  divining  and  keeping  silence  shall  the  friend  be  a 
master:  not  everything  must  thou  wish  to  see.  Thy  dream 
shall   disclose  unto   thee   what  thy   friend   doeth   when 

Let  thy  pity  be  a  divining:  to  know  first  if  thy  friend 
wanteth  pity.  Perhaps  he  loveth  in  thee  the  unmoved 
eye,  and  the  look  of  eternity.  ^    ,   n 

Let  thy  pity  for  thy  friend  be  hid  under  a  hard  shell; 
thou  Shalt  bite  out  a  tooth  upon  it.  Thus  will  it  have 
delicacy  and  sweetness. 

Art  thou  pure  air  and  solitude  and  bread  and  medicine 
to  thy  friend?  Many  a  one  cannot  loosen  his  own  fetters, 
but  is  nevertheless  his  friend's  emancipator. 

Art  thou  a  slave?  Then  thou  canst  not  be  a  fnend. 
Art  thou  a  tyrant?    Thlen  thou  canst  not  have  friends. 

Far  too  long  hath  there  been  a  slave  and  a  tyrant  con- 
cealed in  woman.  On  that  account  woman  is  not  yet 
capable  of  friendship:    she  knoweth   only  love. 

In  woman's  love  there  is  injustice  and  blindness  to  all 
she  doth  not  love.  And  even  in  woman's  conscious  love, 
there  is  still  always  surprise  and  lightning  and  night,  along 

with  the  light.  .  .  .     ^  ^. 

As  yet  woman  is  not  capable  of  friendship:  women  are 

still  cats,  and  birds.    Or  at  the  best,  cows.  ^  ,  ,  ,, 

As  yet  woman  is  not  capable  of  friendship.     But  tell 

me,  ye  men,  who  of  you  are  capable  of  friendship? 
Oh!  your  poverty,  ye  men,  and  your  sordidness  of  soull 

As  much  as  ye  give  to  your  friend,  will  I  give  even  to 

my  foe,  and  will  not  have  become  poorer  thereby. 
There  is  comradeship:  may  there  be  friendship  1 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 

XV.— THE  THOUSAND  AND  ONE  GOALS 

Many  lands  saw  Zarathustra,  and  many  peoples:  thus 
he  discovered  the  good  and  bad  of  many  peoples.  No 
greater  power  did  Zarathustra  find  on  earth  than  good 
and  bad. 


XV— THE  THOUSAND  AND  ONE  GOALS       73 

No  people  could  live  without  first  valuing;  if  a  people 
will  maintain  itself,  however,  it  must  not  value  as  its  neigh- 
bour valueth. 

Much  that  passed  for  good  with  one  people  was  regarded 
with  scorn  and  contempt  by  another:  thus  I  found  it.  Much 
found  I  here  called  bad,  which  was  there  decked  with  pur- 
ple honours. 

Never  did  the  one  neighbour  understand  the  other:  ever 
did  his  soul  marvel  at  his  neighbour's  delusion  and  wick- 
edness. 

A  table  of  excellencies  hangeth  over  every  people.  Lo! 
it  is  the  table  of  their  triumphs;   lo!   it  is  the  voice  of 

their  Will  to  Power. 

It  is  laudable,  what  they  think  hard;  what  is  indis- 
pensable and  hard  they  call  good;  and  what  relieveth  in 
the  direst  distress,  the  unique  and  hardest  of  all,— they 

extol  as  holy. 

Whatever  maketh  them  rule  and  conquer  and  shine,  to 
the  dismay  and  envy  of  their  neighbours,  they  regard  as 
the  high  and  foremost  thing,  the  test  and  the  meanmg 

of  all  else. 

Verily,  my  brother,  if  thou  knewest  but  a  people's  need, 
its  land,  its  sky,  and  its  neighbour,  then  wouldst  thou 
divine  the  law  of  its  surmountings,  and  why  it  climbeth 
up  that  ladder  to  its  hope. 

"Always  shalt  thou  be  the  foremost  and  prominent  above 
others:  no  one  shall  thy  jealous  soul  love,  except  a  friend" — 
that  made  the  soul  of  a  Greek  thrill:  thereby  went  he 
his  way  to  greatness. 

"To  speak  truth,  and  be  skilful  with  bow  and  arrow" — 
so  seemed  it  alike  pleasing  and  hard  to  the  people  from 
whom  Cometh  my  name— the  name  which  is  alike  pleasing 

and  hard  to  me. 

"To  honour  father  and  mother,  and  from  the  root  of 
the  soul  to  do  their  will"— this  table  of  surmounting  hung 
another  people  over  them,  and  became  powerful  and  per- 
manent thereby. 

"To  have  fidelity,  and  for  the  sake  of  fidelity  to  risk 
honour  and  blood,  even  in  evil  and  dangerous  courses"— 
teaching  itself  so,  another  people  mastered  itself,  and  thus 


I 


>»( 


74 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  I 


XVI— NEIGHBOUR-LOVE 


75 


\M 


I 


mastering  itself,  became  pregnant  and  heavy  with  great 

hopes. 

Verily,  men  have  given  unto  themselves  all  their  good 
and  bad.  Verily,  they  took  it  not,  they  found  it  not,  it 
came  not  unto  them  as  a  voice  from  heaven. 

Values  did  man  only  assign  to  things  in  order  to  main- 
tain himself — he  created  only  the  significance  of  things, 
a  human  significance!  Therefore,  calleth  he  himself  ''man," 
that  is,  the  valuator. 

Valuing  is  creating:  hear  it,  ye  creating  ones!  Valua- 
tion itself  is  the  treasure  and  jewel  of  the  valued  things. 

Through  valuation  only  is  there  value ;  and  without  valu- 
ation the  nut  of  existence  would  be  hollow.  Hear  it,  ye 
creating   ones! 

Change  of  values— that  is,  change  of  the  creating  ones. 
Always^  doth  he  destroy  who  hath  to  be  a  creator. 

Creating  ones  were  first  of  all  peoples,  and  only  in  late 
times  individuals;  verily,  the  individual  himself  is  still  the 
latest  creation. 

Peoples  once  hung  over  them  tables  of  the  good.  Love 
which  would  rule  and  love  which  would  obey,  created  for 
themselves  such  tables. 

Older  is  the  pleasure  in  the  herd  than  the  pleasure  in 
the  ego:  and  as  long  as  the  good  conscience  is  for  the 
herd,  the  bad  conscience  only  saith:  ego. 

Verily,  the  crafty  ego,  the  loveless  one,  that  seeketh  its 
advantage  in  the  advantage  of  many — it  is  not  the  origin 
of  the  herd,  but  its  ruin. 

Loving  ones,  was  it  always,  and  creating  ones,  that  cre- 
ated good  and  bad.  Fire  of  love  gloweth  in  the  names  of 
all  the  virtues,  and  fire  of  wrath. 

Many  lands  saw  Zarathustra,  and  many  peoples:  no 
greater  power  did  Zarathustra  find  on  earth  than  the  crea- 
tions  of   the  loving   ones — "good"   and   "bad"   are   they 

called. 

Verily,  a  prodigy  is  this  power  of  praising  and  blaming. 
Tell  me,  ye  brethren,  who  will  master  it  for  me?  Who 
will  put  a  fetter  upon  the  thousand  necks  of  this  animal? 

A  thousand  goals  have  there  been  hitherto,  for  a  thou- 
sand peoples  have  there  been.     Only  the  fetter  for  the 


thousand  necks  is  still  lacking;  there  is  lacking  the  one  goal. 
As  yet  humanity  hath  not  a  goal. 

But  pray  tell  me,  my  brethren,  if  the  goal  of  humanity 
be  still  lacking,  is  there  not  also  still  lacking— humanity 
itself?— 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


XVI.— NEIGHBOUR-LOVE 

Ye  crowd  around  your  neighbour,  and  have  fine  words 
for  it.  But  I  say  unto  you:  your  neighbour-love  is  your 
bad  love  of  yourselves. 

Ye  flee  unto  your  neighbour  from  yourselves,  and  would 
fain  make  a  virtue  thereof:  but  I  fathom  your  "unselfish- 
ness." 

The  Thou  is  older  than  the  /;  the  Thou  hath  been  con- 
secrated, but  not  yet  the  /;  so  man  presseth  nigh  unto  his 

neighbour.  ,    t    j  • 

Do  I  advise  you  to  neighbour-love?    Rather  do  I  advise 

you  to  neighbour-flight  and  to  furthest  love! 

Higher  than  love  to  your  neighbour  is  love  to  the  furthest 

and  future  ones;  higher  still  than  love  to  men,  is  love 

to  things  and  phantoms. 

The  phantom  that  runneth  on  before  thee,  my  brother, 
is  fairer  than  thou;  why  dost  thou  not  give  unto  it  thy 
flesh  and  thy  bones?    But  thou  fearest,  and  runnest  unto 

thy  neighbour. 

Ye  cannot  endure  it  with  yourselves,  and  do  not  love 
yourselves  sufficiently:  so  ye  seek  to  mislead  your  neigh- 
bour into  love,  and  would  fain  gild  yourselves  with  his 

error.  i  •  j     / 

Would  that  ye  could  not  endure  it  with  any  kind  ot 

near  ones,  or  their  neighbours;    then  would  ye  have  to 

create  your  friend  and  his  overflowing  heart  out  of  your- 

Ye  call  in  a  witness  when  ye  want  to  speak  well  of 
yourselves;  and  when  ye  have  misled  him  to  think  well 
of  you,  ye  also  think  well  of  yourselves. 


76 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  I 


Not  only  doth  he  lie,  who  speaketh  contrary  to  his 
knowledge,  but  more  so,  he  who  speaketh  contrary  to  his 
ignorance.  And  thus  speak  ye  of  yourselves  in  your  inter- 
course, and  belie  your  neighbour  with  yourselves. 

Thus  saith  the  fool:  "Association  with  men  spoileth  the 
character,  especially  when  one  hath  none." 

The  one  goeth  to  his  neighbour  because  he  seeketh  him- 
self, and  the  other  because  he  would  fain  lose  himself. 
Your  bad  love   to  yourselves   maketh   solitude   a  prison 

to  you. 

The  furthest  ones  are  they  who  pay  for  your  love  to 
the  near  ones;  and  when  there  are  but  five  of  you  to- 
gether, a  sixth  must  always  die. 

I  love  not  your  festivals  either:  too  many  actors  found 
I  there,  and  even  the  spectators  often  behaved  like  actors. 

Not  the  neighbour  do  I  teach  you,  but  the  friend.  Let 
the  friend  be  the  festival  of  the  earth  to  you,  and  a  fore- 
taste of  the  Superman. 

I  teach  you  the  friend  and  his  overflowing  heart.  But 
one  must  know  how  to  be  a  sponge,  if  one  would  be  loved 
by  overflowing  hearts. 

I  teach  you  the  friend  in  whom  the  world  standeth  com- 
plete, a  capsule  of  the  good,— the  creating  friend,  who  hath 
always  a  complete  world  to  bestow. 

And  as  the  world  unrolled  itself  for  him,  so  roUeth  it 
together  again  for  him  in  rings,  as  the  growth  of  good 
through  evil,  as  the  growth  of  purpose  out  of  chance. 

Let  the  future  and  the  furthest  be  the  motive  of  thy 
to-day;   in  thy  friend  shalt  thou  love  the  Superman  as 

thy  motive. 

My  brethren,  I  advise  you  not  to  neighbour-love— I  ad- 
vise you  to  furthest  lovel — 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


XVIL— THE  WAY  OF  THE  CREATING  ONE 

Wouldst  thou  go  into  isolation,  my  brother?  Wouldst 
thou  seek  the  way  unto  thyself?  Tarry  yet  a  little  and 
hearken  unto  me. 


XVII— THE  WAY  OF  THE  CREATING  ONE     17 


"He  who  seeketh  may  easily  get  lost  himself.  All  isola- 
tion is  wrong":  so  say  the  herd.  And  long  didst  thou 
belong  to  the  herd. 

The  voice  of  the  herd  will  still  echo  in  thee.  And  when 
thou  sayest,  "I  have  no  longer  a  conscience  in  common 
with  you,"  then  will  it  be  a  plaint  and  a  pain. 

Lo,  that  pain  itself  did  the  same  conscience  produce; 
and  the  last  gleam  of  that  conscience  still  gloweth  on  thine 
affliction. 

But  thou  wouldst  go  the  way  of  thine  affliction,  which 
is  the  way  unto  thyself?  Then  show  me  thine  authority 
and  thy  strength  to  do  sol 

Art  thou  a  new  strength  and  a  new  authority?  A  first 
motion?  A  self-rolling  wheel?  Canst  thou  also  compel 
stars  to  revolve  around  thee? 

Alas!  there  is  so  much  lusting  for  loftiness!  There  are 
so  many  convulsions  of  the  ambitions!  Show  me  that  thou 
are  not  a  lusting  and  ambitious  one! 

Alas!  there  are  so  many  great  thoughts  that  do  noth- 
ing more  than  the  bellows:  they  inflate,  and  make  emptier 
than  ever. 

Free,  dost  thou  call  thyself?  Thy  ruling  thought  would 
I  hear  of,  and  not  that  thou  hast  escaped  from  a 
yoke. 

Art  thou  one  entitled  to  escape  from  a  yoke?  Many  a 
one  hath  cast  away  his  final  worth  when  he  hath  cast 
away  his  servitude. 

Free  from  what?  What  doth  that  matter  to  Zarathustra! 
Clearly,  however,  shall  thine  eye  show  unto  me:  free  jor 
what? 

Canst  thou  give  unto  thyself  thy  bad  and  thy  good,  and 
set  up  thy  will  as  a  law  over  thee?  Canst  thou  be  judge 
for  thyself,  and  avenger  of  thy  law? 

Terrible  is  aloneness  with  the  judge  and  avenger  of  one's 
own  law.  Thus  is  a  star  projected  into  desert  space,  and 
into  the  icy  breath  of  aloneness. 

To-day  sufferest  thou  still  from  the  multitude,  thou  in- 
dividual; to-day  hast  thou  still  thy  courage  unabated, 
and  thy  hopes. 

But  one  day  will  the  solitude  weary  thee;  one  day  wiU 


78 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  I 


XVIII— OLD  AND  YOUNG  WOMEN 


79 


i:|lt 


thy  pride  yield,  and  thy  courage  quail.    Thou  wilt  one  day 

cry:  "I  am  alonel"  ,      ,  ^  .  j 

One  day  wilt  thou  see  no  longer  thy  loftiness,  and  see 
too  closely  thy  lowliness;  thy  sublimity  itself  will  lighten 
thee  as  a  phantom.    Thou  wilt  one  day  cry:  "All  is  false  1 

There  are  feelings  which  seek  to  slay  the  lonesome  one; 
if  they  do  not  succeed,  then  must  they  themselves  diel 
But  art  thou  capable  of  it— to  be  a  murderer? 

Hast  thou  ever  known,  my  brother,  the  word  disdain  ? 
And  the  anguish  of  thy  justice  in  being  just  to  those 

that  disdain  thee?  i.       ^u  ^ 

Thou  forcest  many  to  think  differently  about  thee;  that, 
charge  they  heavily  to  thine  account.  Thou  camest  nigh 
unto  them,  and  yet  wentest  past:    for  that  they  never 

forgive  thee.  . 

Thou  goest  beyond  them:  but  the  higher  thou  risest, 
the  smaller  doth  the  eye  of  envy  see  thee.  Most  of  all, 
however,  is  the  flying  one  hated. 

"How  could  ye  be  just  unto  me  1"— must  thou  say—  1 
choose  your  injustice  as  my  allotted  portion." 

Injustice  and  filth  cast  they  at  the  lonesome  one:  but, 
my  brother,  if  thou  wouldst  be  a  star,  thou  must  shine 
for  them  none  the  less  on  that  account! 

And  be  on  thy  guard  against  the  good  and  justl  They 
would  fain  crucify  those  who  devise  their  own  virtue— 
they  hate  the  lonesome  ones.  ^      ,.  .     ,      a„  . 

Be  on  thy  guard,  also,  against  holy  simplicityl  All  is 
unholy  to  it  that  is  not  simple;  fain,  likewise,  would  it 
play  with  the  fire— of  the  fagot  and  stake. 

And  be  on  thy  guard,  also,  against  the  assaults  of  thy 
"love!     Too  readily  doth  the  recluse  reach  his  hand  to 
any  one  who  meeteth  him.  I  ,      j  u         i 

To  many  a  one  mayest  thou  not  give  thy  hand,  but  only 
thy  paw;  and  I  wish  thy  paw  also  to  have  claws. 

But  the  worst  enemy  thou  canst  meet,  wilt  thou  thy- 
self always  be;    thou  waylayest  thyself   in  caverns  and 

forests.  ^  ^     xu      uf 

Thou  lonesome  one,   thou   goest  the  way   to   thyseltl 

And  past  thyself  and  thy  seven  devils  leadeth  thy  way! 
A  heretic  wilt  thou  be  to  thyself,  and  a  wizard  and  a 


sooth-sayer,  and  a  fool,  and  a  doubter,  and  a  reprobate, 
and  a  villain. 

Ready  must  thou  be  to  bum  thyself  in  thine  own  flame  ;^ 
how  couldst  thou  become  new  if  thou  have  not  first  become 
ashes! 

Thou  lonesome  one,  thou  goest  the  way  of  the  creating 
one:  a  God  wilt  thou  create  for  thyself  out  of  thy  seven 
devils! 

Thou  lonesome  one,  thou  goest  the  way  of  the  loving 
one:  thou  lovest  thyself,  and  on  that  account  despisest  thou 
thyself,  as  only  the  loving  ones  despise. 

To  create,  desireth  the  loving  one,  because  he  despisethl 
What  knoweth  he  of  love  who  hath  not  been  obliged  to 
despise  just  what  he  loved! 

With  thy  love,  go  into  thine  isolation,  my  brother,  and 
with  thy  creating;  and  late  only  will  justice  limp  after 
thee. 

With  my  tears,  go  into  thine  isolation,  my  brother.  I 
love  him  who  seeketh  to  create  beyond  himself,  and  thus 
succumbeth. — 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


XVIII.— OLD  AND  YOUNG  WOMEN 

Why  stealest  thou  along  so  furtively  in  the  twilight, 
Zarathustra?  And  what  hidest  thou  so  carefully  under  thy 
mantle? 

Is  it  a  treasure  that  hath  been  given  thee?  Or  a  child 
that  hath  been  born  thee?  Or  goest  thou  thyself  on  a 
thief's  errand,  thou   friend  of  the  evil?" — 

Verily,  my  brother,  said  Zarathustra,  it  is  a  treasure 
that  hath  been  given  me:  it  is  a  little  truth  which  I 
carry. 

But  it  is  naughty,  like  a  young  child;  and  if  I  hold 
not  its  mouth,  it  screameth  too  loudly. 

As  I  went  on  my  way  alone  to-day,  at  the  hour  when 
the  sun  declineth,  there  met  me  an  old  woman,  and  she 
spake  thus  unto  my  soul: 


8o 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  I 


XIX— THE  BITE  OF  THE  ADDER 


8i 


L   I 


I  ! 


if' 


"Much  hath  Zarathustra  spoken  also  to  us  women,  but 
never  spake  he  unto  us  concerning  woman." 
And  I  answered  her:  "Concerning  woman,  one  should 

only  talk  unto  men." 

"Talk  also  unto  me  of  woman,"  said  she;  "I  am  old 
enough  to  forget  it  presently." 

And  I  obliged  the  old  woman  and  spake  thus  unto  her: ^ 

Everything  in  woman  is  a  riddle,  and  everything  in 
woman  hath  one  solution — it  is  called  pregnancy. 

Man  is  for  woman,  a  means:  the  purpose  is  always  the 
child.     But  what  is  woman  for  ma»? 

Two  different  things  wanteth  the  true  man:  danger  and 
diversion.  Therefore  wanteth  he  woman,  as  the  most 
dangerous  plaything. 

Man  shall  be  trained  for  war,  and  woman  for  the  recrea- 
tion of  the  warrior:  all  else  is  folly. 

Too  sweet  fruits — these  the  warrior  liketh  not.  There- 
fore liketh  he  woman; — bitter  is  even  the  sweetest  woman. 

Better  than  man  doth  woman  understand  children,  but 
man  is  more  childish  than  woman. 

In  the  true  man  there  is  a  child  hidden:  it  wanteth 
to  play.     Up  then,  ye  women,  and  discover  the  child  in 

man! 

A  plaything  let  woman  be,  pure  and  fine  like  the  pre- 
cious stone,  illumined  with  the  virtues  of  a  world  not  yet 

come. 

Let  the  beam  of  a  star  shine  in  your  love!  Let  your 
hope  say:  "May  I  bear  the  Superman!" 

In  your  tove  let  there  be  valour!  With  your  love  shall 
ye  assail  him  who  inspire th  you  with  fear! 

In  your  love  be  your  honour!  Little  doth  woman  un- 
derstand otherwise  about  honour.  But  let  this  be  your 
honour:  always  to  love  more  than  ye  are  loved,  and  never 

be  the  second.  • 

Let  man  fear  woman  when  she  loveth:  then  maketh  she 
every    sacrifice,    and    everything    else    she    regardeth    as 

worthless.  , 

Let  man  fear  woman  when  she  hateth:  for  man  in  his 

innermost  soul  is  merely  evil;  woman,  however,  is  mean. 
Whom  hateth  woman  most?— Thus  spake  the  iron  to 


the  loadstone:  "I  hate  thee  most,  because  thou  attractest, 
but  art  too  weak  to  draw  unto  thee." 
The  happiness  of  man  is,  "I  will."    The  happiness  of 

woman  is,  "He  will." 

"Lol  now  hath  the  world  become  perfect!" — thus  thmk- 
eth  every  woman  when  she  obeyeth  with  all  her  love. 

Obey,  must  the  woman,  and  find  a  depth  for  her  sur- 
face. Surfa:e,  is  woman's  soul,  a  mobile,  stormy  film  on 
<^lis.11ow  water 

Man's  soul,  however,  is  deep,  its  current  gusheth  in 
subterranean  caverns:  woman  surmiseth  its  force,  but  com- 
prehendeth  it  not. — 

Then  answered  me  the  old  woman:  "Many  fine  things 
hath  Zarathustra  said,  especially  for  those  who  are  young 
enough  for  them.  ' 

Strange!  Zarathustra  knoweth  little  about  woman,  and 
yet  he  is  right  about  them!  Doth  this  happen,  because 
with  women  nothing  is  impossible? 

And  now  accept  a  little  truth  by  way  of  thanks!  I  am 
old  enough  for  it!  ,      , 

Swaddle  it  up  and  hold  its  mouth:   otherwise  it  will 

scream  too  loudly,  the  little  truth." 

"Give  me,  woman,  thy  little  truth!"  said  I.  And  thus 
spake  the  old  woman: 

"Thou  goest  to  women?    Do  not  forget  thy  whip!"— 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


XIX.— THE  BITE  OF  THE  ADDER 

One  day  had  Zarathustra  fallen  asleep  under  a  fig-tree, 
owing  to  the  heat,  with  his  arms  over  his  face.  And  there 
came  an  adder  and  bit  him  in  the  neck,  so  that  Zarathustra 
screamed  with  pain.  When  he  had  taken  his  arm  from 
his  face  he  looked  at  the  serpent;  and  then  did  it  recognise 
the  eyes  of  Zarathustra,  wriggled  awkwardly,  and  tried  to 
get  away.  "Not  at  all,"  said  Zarathustra,  "as  yet  hast 
thou  not  received  my  thanks!  Thou  hast  awakened  me 
in  time;  my  journey  is  yet  long."    "Thy  journey  is  short,' 


82 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  I 


XX— CHILD  AND  MARRIAGE 


83 


I 


said  the  adder,  sadly;  "my  poison  is  fatal."  Zarathustra 
smiled.  "When  did  ever  a  dragon  die  of  a  serpent's  poi- 
son?''— said  he.  "But  take  thy  poison  backl  Thou  art 
not  rich  enough  to  present  it  to  me."  Then  fell  the  adder 
again  on  his  neck,  and  licked  his  wound. 

When  Zarathustra  once  told  this  to  his  disciples  they 
asked  him:  "And  what,  O  Zarathustra,  is  the  moral  of  thy 
story?"    And  Zarathustra  answered  them  thus: 

The  destroyer  of  morality,  the  good  and  just  call  me: 
my  story  is  immoral. 

When,  however,  ye  have  an  enemy,  then  return  him  not 
good  for  evil:  for  that  would  abash  him.  But  prove  that 
he  hath  done  something  good  to  you. 

And  rather  be  angry  than  abash  any  onel  And  when 
ye  are  cursed,  it  pleaseth  me  not  that  ye  should  then  de- 
sire to  bless.     Rather  curse  a  little  also! 

And  should  a  great  injustice  befall  you,  then  do  quickly 
five  small  ones  besides.  Hideous  to  behold  is  he  on  whom 
injustice  presseth  alone. 

Did  ye  ever  know  this?  Shared  injustice  is  half  justice. 
And  he  who  can  bear  it,  shall  take  the  injustice  upon 
himself  I 

A  small  revenge  is  humaner  than  no  revenge  at  all.^  And 
if  the  punishment  be  not  also  a  right  and  an  honour  to 
the  transgressor,  I  do  not  like  your  punishing. 

Nobler  is  it  to  own  oneself  in  the  wrong  than  to  establisK 
one's  right,  especially  if  one  be  in  the  right.  Only,  one  must 
be  rich  enough  to  do  so. 

I  do  not  like  your  cold  justice;  out  of  the  eye  of  your 
judges  there  always  glanceth  the  executioner  and  his  cold 
steel. 

Tell  me:  where  find  we  justice,  which  is  love  with  see- 
ing eyes? 

Devise  me,  then,  the  love  which  not  only  beareth  all 
punishment,  but  also  all  guilt! 

Devise  me,  then,  the  justice  which  acquitteth  every  one, 
except  the  judge! 

And  would  ye  hear  this  likewise?  To  him  who  seeketh 
to  be  just  from  the  heart,  even  the  lie  becometh  phi- 
lanthropy. 


« r. 


But  how  could  I  be  just  from  the  heart!  How  can  I 
give  every  one  his  own!  Let  this  be  enough  for  me:  I 
give  unto  every  one  mine  own. 

Finally,  my  brethren,  guard  against  doing  wrong  to 
any  anchorite.    How  could  an  anchorite  forget!    How  could 

he  requite! 

Like  a  deep  well  is  an  anchorite.  Easy  is  it  to  throw 
in  a  stone:  if  it  should  sink  to  the  bottom,  however,  tell 
me,  who  will  bring  it  out  again? 

Guard  against  injuring  the  anchorite!  If  ye  have  done 
so,  however,  well  then,  kill  him  also!— 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


XX.— CHH-D  AND  MARRIAGE 

I  have  a  question  for  thee  alone,  my  brother:  like  a 
sounding-lead,  cast  I  this  question  into  thy  soul,  that  I 
may  know  its  depth.  ^ 

Thou  art  young,  and  desirest  child  and  marriage.  But 
I  ask  thee:  Art  thou  a  man  entitled  to  desire  a  child? 

Art  thou  the  victorious  one,  the  self-conqueror,  the  ruler 
of  thy  passions,  the  master  of  thy  virtues?     Thus  do  I 

Or  doth  the  animal  speak  in  thy  wish,  and  necessity? 
Or  isolation?     Or  discord  in  thee? 

I  would  have  thy  victory  and  freedom  long  for  a  child. 
Living  monuments  shalt  thou  build  to  thy  victory  and 

emancipation. 

Beyond  thyself  shalt  thou  build.  But  first  of  all  must 
thou  be  built  thyself,  rectangular  in  body  and  soul. 

Not  only  onward  shalt  thou  propagate  thyself,  but  up- 
ward!     For  that  purpose  may   the  garden  of   marriage 

help  thee! 

A  higher  body  shalt  thou  create,  a  first  movement,  a 
spontaneously   rolling   wheel— a   creating   one  shalt   thou 

create 

Marriage:  so  call  I  the  will  of  the  twain  to  create  the 
one  that  is  more  than  those  who  created  it.     The  rev- 


84 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  I 


XXI— VOLUNTARY  DEATH 


85 


t! 


m 


erence  for  one  another,  as  those  exercising  such  a  will, 
call  I  marriage. 

Let  this  be  the  significance  and  the  truth  of  thy  mar- 
riage. But  that  which  the  many-too-many  call  marriage, 
those  superfluous  ones — ah,  what  shall  I  call  it? 

Ah,  the  poverty  of  soul  in  the  twain!  Ah,  the  filth  of 
soul  in  the  twain !  Ah,  the  pitiable  self-complacency  in  the 
twain! 

Marriage  they  call  it  all;  and  they  say  their  marriages 
are  made  in  heaven. 

Well,  I  do  not  like  it,  that  heaven  of  the  superfluous! 
No,  I  do  not  like  them,  those  animals  tangled  in  the  heav- 
enly toils! 

Far  from  me  also  be  the  God  who  limpeth  thither  to 
bless  what  he  hath  not  matched! 

Laugh  not  at  such  marriages!  What  child  hath  not 
had  reason  to  weep  over  its  parents? 

Worthy  did  this  man  seem,  and  ripe  for  the  meaning 
of  the  earth:  but  when  I  saw  his  wife,  the  earth  seemed 
to  me  a  home  for  madcaps. 

Yea,  I  would  that  the  earth  shook  with  convulsions  when 
a  saint  and  a  goose  mate  with  one  another. 

This  one  went  forth  in  quest  of  truth  as  a  hero,  and  at 
last  got  for  himself  a  small  decked-up  lie:  his  marriage  he 
calleth  it. 

That  one  was  reserved  in  intercourse  and  chose  choicely. 
But  one  time  he  spoilt  his  company  for  all  time:  his  mar- 
riage he  calleth  it. 

Another  sought  a  handmaid  with  the  virtues  of  an  angel. 
But  all  at  once  he  became  the  handmaid  of  a  woman, 
and  now  would  he  need  also  to  become  an  angel. 

Careful,  have  I  found  all  buyers,  and  all  of  them  have 
astute  eyes.  But  even  the  astutest  of  them  buyeth  his  wife 
in  a  sack. 

Many  short  follies — that  is  called  love  by  you.»  And 
your  marriage  putteth  an  end  to  many  short  follies,  with 
one  long  stupidity. 

Your  love  to  woman,  and  woman's  love  to  man — ah, 
would  that  it  were  sympathy  for  suffering  and  veiled  dei- 
ties!    But  generally  two  animals  light  on  one  another. 


But  even  your  best  love  is  only  an  enraptured  simile 
and  a  painful  ardour.  It  is  a  torch  to  light  you  to  loftier 
paths. 

Beyond  yourselves  shall  ye  love  some  day!  Then  learn 
first  of  all  to  love.  And  on  that  account  ye  had  to  drink 
the  bitter  cup  of  your  love. 

Bitterness  is  in  the  cup  even  of  the  best  love;  thus  doth 
it  cause  longing  for  the  Superman;  thus  doth  it  cause  thirst 
in  thee,  the  creating  one! 

Thirst  in  the  creating  one,  arrow  and  longing  for  the 
Superman:  tell  me,  my  brother,  is  this  thy  will  to  marriage? 

Holy  call  I  such  a  will,  and  such  a  marriage. — 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


XXI.— VOLUNTARY  DEATH 

Many  die  too  late,  and  some  die  too  early.  Yet  strange 
soundeth  the  precept:  "Die  at  the  right  time!" 

Die  at  the  right  time:  so  teacheth  Zarathustra. 

To  be  sure,  he  who  never  liveth  at  the  right  time,  how 
could  he  ever  die  at  the  right  time?  Would  that  he  might 
never  be  born! — Thus  do  I  advise  the  superfluous  oneS. 

But  even  the  superfluous  ones  make  much  ado  about  their 
death,  and  even  the  hollowest  nut  wanteth  to  be  cracked. 

Every  one  regardeth  dying  as  a  great  matter:  but  as  yet 
death  is  not  a  festival.  Not  yet  have  people  learned  to 
inaugurate  the  finest  festivals. 

The  consummating  death  I  show  unto  you,  which  be- 
cometh  a  stimulus  and  promise  to  the  living. 

His  death,  dieth  the  consummating  one  triumphantly, 
surrounded  by  hoping  and  promising  ones. 

Thus  should  one  learn  to  die;  and  there  should  be  no 
festival  at  which  such  a  dying  one  doth  not  consecrate 
the  oaths  of  the  living! 

Thus  to  die  is  best;  the  next  best,  however,  is  to  die 
in  battle,  and  sacrifice  a  great  soul. 

But  to  the  fighter  equally  hateful  as  to  the  victor,  is  your 


86 


rnUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  I 


XXI— VOLUNTARY  DEATH 


87 


ü^i 


k. 


grinning  death  which  stealeth  nigh  like  a  thief,— and  yet 
Cometh  as  master. 

My  death,  praise  I  unto  you,  Üie  voluntary  death,  which 
Cometh  unto  me  because  /  want  it. 

And  when  shall  I  want  it?— He  that  hath  a  goal  and 
an  heir,  wanteth  death  at  the  right  time  for  the  goal  and 

the  heir. 

And  out  of  reverence  for  the  goal  and  the  heir,  he  will 
hang  up  no  more  withered  wreaths  in  the  sanctuary  of 

life. 

Verily,  not  the  rope-makers  will  I  resemble:  they  lengthen 

out  their  cord,  and  thereby  go  ever  backward. 

Many  a  one,  also,  waxeth  too  old  for  his  truths  and 

triumphs;   a  toothless  mouth  hath  no  longer  the  right  to 

every  truth. 

And  whoever  wanteth  to  have  fame,  must  take  leave 
of  honour  betimes,  and  practise  the  difficult  art  of— going 

at  the  right  time. 

One  must  discontinue  being  feasted  upon  when  one 
tasteth  best:  that  is  known  by  those  who  want  to  be  long 

loved. 

Sour  apples  are  there,  no  doubt,  whose  lot  is  to  wait 
until  the  last  day  of  autumn:  and  at  the  same  time  they 
become  ripe,  yellow,  and  shrivelled. 

Iff  some  ageth  the  heart  first,  and  in  others  the  spirit. 
And  some  are  hoary  in  youth,  but  the  late  young  keep 

long  young.  . 

To  many  men  life  is  a  failure;  a  poison-worm  gnaweth 
at  their  heart.  Then  let  them  see  to  it  that  their  dying 
is  all  the  more  a  success. 

Many  never  become  sweet;  they  rot  even  in  the  sum- 
mer.    It  is  cowardice   that  holdeth  them   fast  to  their 

branches. 

Far  too  many  live,  and  far  too  long  hang  they  on  their 
branches.  Would  that  a  storm  came  and  shook  all  this 
rottenness  and  worm-eatenness  from  the  treel 

Would  that  there  came  preachers  of  speedy  death! 
Those  would  be  the  appropriate  storms  and  agitators  of 
the  trees  of  life!  But  I  hear  only  slow  death  preached, 
and  patience  with  all  that  is  "earthly." 


Ah!  ye  preach  patience  with  what  is  earthly?  This 
earthly  is  it  that  hath  too  much  patience  with  you,  ye 
blasphemers ! 

Verily,  too  early  died  that  Hebrew  whom  the  preachers 
of  slow  death  honour:  and  to  many  hath  it  proved  a 
calamity  that  he  died  too  early. 

As  yet  had  he  known  only  tears,  and  the  melancholy  of 
the  Hebrews,  together  with  the  hatred  of  the  good  and 
just — the  Hebrew  Jesus:  then  was  he  seized  with  the  long- 
ing for  death. 

Had  he  but  remained  in  the  wilderness,  and  far 
from  the  good  and  just!  Then,  perhaps,  would  he 
have  learned  to  live,  and  love  the  earth — and  laughter 
also! 

Believe  it,  my  brethren!    He  died  too  early;  he  himself y 
would  have  disavowed  his  doctrine  had  he  attained  to  my 
age!     Noble  enough  was  he  to  disavow! 

But  he  was  still  immature.  Immaturely  loveth  the  youth, 
and  immaturely  also  hateth  he  man  and  earth.  Confined 
and  awkward  are  still  his  soul  and  the  wings  of  his 
spirit. 

But  in  man  there  is  more  of  the  child  than  in  the  youth, 
and  less  of  melancholy:  better  understandeth  he  about  life 
and  death. 

Free  for  death,  and  free  in  death;  a  holy  Naysayer,  when 
there  is  no  longer  time  for  Yea:  thus  understandeth  he 
about  death  and  life. 

That  your  dying  may  not  be  a  reproach  to  man  and 
the  earth,  my  friends:  that  do  I  solicit  from  the  honey 
of  your  soul. 

In  your  dying  shall  your  spirit  and  your  virtue  still 
shine  like  an  evening  after-glow  around  the  earth:  other- 
wise your  dying  hath  been  unsatisfactory. 

Thus  will  I  die  myself,  that  ye  friends  may  love  the 
earth  more  for  my  sake;  and  earth  will  I  again  become, 
to  have  rest  in  her  that  bore  me. 

Verily,  a  goal  had  Zarathustra;  he  threw  his  ball.  Now 
be  ye  friends  the  heirs  of  my  goal;  to  you  throw  I  the 
golden  ball. 

Best  of  all,  do  I  see  you,  my  friends,  throw  the  golden 


/. 


88 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  I 


XXII— THE  BESTOWING  VIRTUE 


89 


i' 


Hi'! 


ball!     And  so  tarry  I  stil 
pardon  me  for  itl 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


XXII.— THE  BESTOWING  VIRTUE 

I. 

When  Zarathustra  had  taken  leave  of  the  town  to  which 
his  heart  was  attached,  the  name  of  which  is  "The  Pied 
Cow,"  there  followed  him  many  people  who  called  them- 
selves his  disciples,  and  kept  him  company.  Thus  came 
they  to  a  cross-road.  Then  Zarathustra  told  them  that  he 
now  wanted  to  go  alone;  for  he  was  fond  of  going  alone. 
His  disciples,  however,  presented  him  at  his  departure  with 
a  staff,  on  the  golden  handle  of  which  a  serpent  twined 
round  the  sun.  Zarathustra  rejoiced  on  account  of  the 
staff,  and  supported  himself  thereon;  then  spake  he  thus 

to  his  disciples: 

Tell  me,  pray:  how  came  gold  to  the  highest  value?  Be- 
cause it  is  uncommon,  and  unprofiting,  and  beaming,  and 
soft  in  lustre;  it  always  bestoweth  itself. 

Only  as  image  of  the  highest  virtue  came  gold  to  the 

highest  value.     Goldlike,  beameth  the  glance  of  the  be- 

^tower.    Gold-lustre  maketh  peace  between  moon  and  sun. 

/     Uncommon  is  the  highest  virtue,  and  unprofiting,  beam- 

/  ing  is  it,  and  soft  of  lustre:  a  bestowing  virtue  is  the  high- 

I   est  virtue. 

^      Verily,  I  divine  you  well,  my  disciples:  ye  strive  like  me 

for  the  bestowing  virtue.    What  should  ye  have  in  common 

with  cats  and  wolves? 

It  is  your  thirst  to  become  sacrifices  and  gifts  yourselves: 

and  therefore  have  ye  the  thirst  to  accumulate  all  riches 

in  your  soul. 

Insatiably  striveth  your  soul  for  treasures  and  jewels, 
because  your  virtue  is  insatiable  in  desiring  to  bestow. 

Ye  constrain  all  things  to  flow  towards  you  and  into  you, 


t 


»,  ij 


M 


so  that  they  shall  flow  back  again  out  of  your  fountain  as 
the  gifts  of  your  love. 

Verily,  an  appropriator  of  all  values  must  such  bestow- 
ing love  become;  but  healthy  and  holy,  call  I  this  selfish- 
ness.— 

Another  selfishness  is  there,  an  all-too-poor  and  hungry 
kind,  which  would  always  steal — the  selfishness  of  the  äck, 
the  sickly  selfishness. 

With  the  eye  of  the  thief  it  looketh  upon  all  that  is 
lustrous;  with  the  craving  of  hunger  it  measureth  him  who 
hath  abundance;  and  ever  doth  it  prowl  round  the  tables 
of  bestowers. 

Sickness  speaketh  in  such  craving,  and  invisible  degen- 
eration; of  a  sickly  body,  speaketh  the  larcenous  craving 
of  this  selfishness. 

Tell  me,  my  brother,  what  do  we  think  bad,  and  worst 
of  all?  Is  it  not  degeneration? — ^And  we  always  suspect 
degeneration  when  the  bestowing  soul  is  lacking. 

Upward  goeth  our  course  from  genera  on  to  super-genera. 
But  a  horror  to  us  is  the  degenerating  sense,  which  saith: 
"All  for  myself." 

Upward  soareth  our  sense:  thus  is  it  a  simile  of  our 
body,  a  simile  of  an  elevation.  Such  similes  of  elevations 
are  the  names  of  the  virtues. 

Thus  goeth  the  body  through  history,  a  becomer  and 
fighter.  And  the  spirit — what  is  it  to  the  body?  Its  fights' 
and  victories'  herald,  its  companion  and  echo. 

Similes,  are  all  names  of  good  and  evil;  they  do  not 
speak  out,  they  only  hint.  A  fool  who  seeketh  knowl- 
edge from  them! 

Give  heed,  my  brethren,  to  every  hour  when  your  spirit 
would  speak  in  similes:  there  is  the  origin  of  your  virtue. 

Elevated  is  then  your  body,  and  raised  up;  with  its 
delight,  enraptureth  it  the  spirit;  so  that  it  becometh 
creator,  and  valuer,  and  lover,  and  everything's  bene- 
factor. 

When  your  heart  overfloweth  broad  and  full  like  the  river, 
a  blessing  and  a  danger  to  the  lowlanders:  there  is  the 
origin  of  your  virtue. 

When  ye  are  exalted  above  praise  and  blame,  and  your 


90 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  I 


XXn— THE  BESTOWING  VIRTUE 


91 


m 


i 


II 


will  would  command  all  things,  aß  a  loving  one's  will: 
there  is  the  origin  of  your  virtue. 

When  ye  despise  pleasant  things,  and  the  effeminate 
couch,  and  cannot  couch  far  enough  from  the  effeminate: 
there  is  the  origin  of  your  virtue. 

When  ye  are  willers  of  one  will,  and  when  that  change 
of  every  need  is  needful  to  you:   there  is  the  origin  of 

your  virtue. 

Verily,  a  new  good  and  evil  is  it!  Verily,  a  new  deep 
murmuring,  and  the  voice  of  a  new  fountain! 

Power  is  it,  this  new  virtue;  a  ruling  thought  is  it, 
and  around  it  a  subtle  soul:  a  golden  sun,  with  the  serpent 
of  knowledge  around  it. 

2. 

Here  paused  Zarathustra  awhile,  and  looked  lovingly  on 
his  disciples.  Then  he  continued  to  speak  thus — and  his 
voice  had  changed: 

Remain  true  to  the  earth,  my  brethren,  with  the  power 
of  your  virtue!  Let  your  bestowing  love  and  your  knowl- 
edge be  devoted  to  be  the  meaning  of  the  earth!  Thus  do 
I  pray  and  conjure  you. 

Let  it  not  fly  away  from  the  earthly  and  beat  against 
eternal  walls  with  its  wings!  Ah,  there  hath  always  been 
so  much  flown-away  virtue! 

Lead,  like  me,  the  flown-away  virtue  back  to  the  earth — 
yea,  back  to  body  and  life:  that  it  may  give  to  the  earth 
its  meaning,  a  human  meaning! 

A  hundred  times  hitherto  hath  spirit  as  well  as  virtue 
flown  away  and  blundered.  Alas!  in  our  body  dwelleth  still 
all  this  delusion  and  blundering:  body  and  will  hath  it  there 

become. 

A  hundred  times  hitherto  hath  spirit  as  well  as  virtue 
attempted  and  erred.  Yea,  an  attempt  hath  man  bep. 
Alas,  much  ignorance  and  error  hath  become  embodied 
in  us!  ^  ♦ 

Not  only  the  rationality  of  millenniums — also  their  mad- 
ness, breaketh  out  in  us.    Dangerous  is  it  to  be  an  heir. 

Still  fight  we  step  by  step  with  the  giant  Chance,  and 


over  all  mankind  hath  hitherto  ruled  nonsense,  the  lack- 

ol-sense. 

Let  your  spirit  and  your  virtue  be  devoted  to  the  sense 
of  the  earth,  my  brethren:  let  the  value  of  everything  be 
determined  anew  by  you!  Therefore  shall  ye  be  fighters! 
Therefore  shall  ye  be  creators! 

Intelligently  doth  the  body  purify  itself;  attempting  with 
intelligence  it  exalteth  itself;  to  the  discemers  all  impulses 
sanctify   themselves;    to   the   exalted   the  soul   becometh 

joyful. 

Physician,  heal  thyself:  then  wilt  thou  also  heal  thy 
patient.  Let  it  be  his  best  cure  to  see  with  his  eyes  him  who 
maketh  himself  whole. 

A  thousand  paths  are  there  which  have  never  yet  been 
trodden;  a  thousand  salubrities  and  hidden  islands  of  life. 
Unexhausted   and   undiscovered   is  still   man   and   man's 

world. 

Awake  and  hearken,  ye  lonesome  ones!  From  the  fu- 
ture come  winds  with  stealthy  pinions,  and  to  fine  ears 
good  tidings  are  proclaimed. 

Ye  lonesome  ones  of  to-day,  ye  seceding  ones,  ye  shall 
one  day  be  a  people:  out  of  you  who  have  chosen  your- 
selves, shall  a  chosen  people  arise: — and  out  of  it  the 
Superman. 

Verily,  a  place  of  healing  shall  the  earth  become!  And 
already  is  a  new  odour  diffused  around  it,  a  salvation- 
bringing  odour — and  a  new  hope! 


When  Zarathustra  had  spoken  these  words,  he  paused, 
like  one  who  had  not  said  his  last  word;  and  long  did 
he  balance  the  staff  doubtfully  in  his  hand.  At  last  he 
spake  thus — and  his  voice  had  changed: 

I  now  go  alone,  my  disciples!  Ye  also  now  go  away, 
and  alone!     So  will  I  have  it. 

Verily,  I  advise  you:  depart  from  me,  and  guard  your- 
selves against  Zarathustra!  And  better  still:  be  ashamed 
of  him!     Perhaps  he  hath  deceived  you. 


92 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  I 


?i! 


Hi 


i4t 
I 


W 


The  man  of  knowledge  must  be  able  not  only  to  love 
his  enemies,  but  also  to  hate  his  friends. 

One  requiteth  a  teacher  badly  if  one  remain  merely  a 
scholar.    And  why  will  ye  not  pluck  at  my  wreath? 

Ye  venerate  me;  but  what  if  your  veneration  should 
some  day  collapse?    Take  heed  lest  a  statue  crush  youl 

Ye  say,  ye  believe  in  Zarathustra?  But  of  what  account 
is  Zarathustra  1  Ye  are  my  believers:  but  of  what  accoimt 
are  all  believers! 

Ye  had  not  yet  sought  yourselves:  then  did  ye  find  me. 
So  do  all  believers;    therefore  all  belief  is  of  so  little 

account. 

Now  do  I  bid  you  lose  me  and  find  yourselves;  and  only 
when  ye  have  all  denied  me,  will  I  return  unto  you. 

Verily,  with  other  eyes,  my  brethren,  shall  I  then  seek 
my  lost  ones;  with  another  love  shall  I  then  love  you. 

And  once  again  shall  ye  have  become  friends  unto  me, 
and  children  of  one  hope:  then  will  I  be  with  you  for  the 
third  time,  to  celebrate  the  great  noontide  with  you. 

And  it  is  the  great  noontide,  when  man  is  in  the  middle 
of  his  course  between  animal  and  Superman,  and  celebrat- 
eth  his  advance  to  the  evening  as  his  highest  hope:  for  it 
is  the  advance  to  a  new  morning. 

At  such  time  will  the  down-goer  bless  himself,  that  he 
should  be  an  over-goer;  and  the  sun  of  his  knowledge  will 
be  at  noontide. 

''Dead  are  all  the  Gods:  now  do  we  desire  the  Superman 
to  live." — ^Let  this  be  our  final  will  at  the  great  noon- 
tide!— 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA 
SECOND  PART 


" — ^and  only  when  ye  have 
all  denied  me,  will  I  return 
unto  you. 

Verily,  with  other  eyes, 
my  brethren,  shall  I  then 
seek  my  lost  ones ;  with  an- 
other love  shall  I  then  love 
you."  —  Zarathustra,  I., 
"The     Bestowing     Virtue" 

Xp.  92). 


i": 


m 


m 


tmm 


e  ' 


|i 


Ml 


I' 


11 


XXni.— THE  CHILD  WITH  THE  MIRROR 

After  this  Zarathustra  returned  again  into  the  mountains 
to  the  solitude  of  his  cave,  and  withdrew  himself  from 
men,  waiting  like  a  sower  who  hath  scattered  his  seed. 
His  soul,  however,  became  impatient  and  full  of  longing 
for  those  whom  he  loved:  because  he  had  still  much  to 
give  them.  For  this  is  hardest  of  all:  to  close  the  open 
hand  out  of  love,  and  keep  modest  as  a  giver. 

Thus  passed  with  the  lonesome  one  months  and  years; 
his  wisdom  meanwhile  increased,  and  caused  him  pain  by 
its  abundance. 

One  morning,  however,  he  awoke  ere  the  rosy  dawn,  and 
having  meditated  long  on  his  couch,  at  last  spake  thus 
to  his  heart: 

Why  did  I  startle  in  my  dream,  so  that  I  awoke?  Did 
not  a  child  come  to  me,  carrying  a  mirror? 

"O  Zarathustra"— said  the  child  unto  me— "look  at  thy- 
self in  the  mirror!" 

But  when  I  looked  into  the  mirror,  I  shrieked,  and  my 
heart  throbbed:  for  not  myself  did  I  see  therein,  but  a 
deviPs  grimace  and  derision. 

Verily,  all  too  well  do  I  understand  the  dream's  portent 
and  monition:  my  doctrine  is  in  danger;  tares  want  to  be 
called  wheat! 

Mine  enemies  have  grown  powerful  and  have  disfigured 
the  likeness  of  my  doctrine,  so  that  my  dearest  ones  have 
to  blush  for  the  gifts  that  I  gave  them. 

Lost  are  my  friends;  the  hour  hath  come  for  me  to  seek 
my  lost  ones! — 

With  these  words  Zarathustra  started  up,  not  however 
like  a  person  in  anguish  seeking  relief,  but  rather  like  a 
seer  and  a  singer  whom  the  spirit  inspireth.  With  amaze- 
ment did  his  eagle  and  serpent  gaze  upon  him:  for  a  com- 
ing bliss  overspread  his  countenance  like  the  rosy  dawn. 

What  hath  happened   unto   me,   mine  animals? — said 

95 


V 


^  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHÜSTRA,  H 

ZaraU.us.ra.   Am  I  »o.  .-formed.    Hau.  no.  bH.  a>.e 

''  ^o^ra^ariVÄ^--"---  ^-^  -^ 

physicians  unto  mel  ^    Iso  to  mine 

±£f  ÄuTüa^Ä  tf  i  a-a  be..«,  an. 
show  his  best  love  to  his  loved  ones.  ^^_ 

'\y  i-Patient  love  ov^^^^^^^^^^  and 

wards  sunrise  and  sunset,     uui  ^^ 

storms  of  afflict-'i,  rusheth  my^^^^^^^         .^^^  ^^^^  ,. 

Too^ÄtrsoUÄssessed  me:   thus  have  I  un- 
learned  to  keep  silence.  ^^r^aPther    and  the  brawling 

„r^SSrÄiS:  dSÄ'L.^  .be  vaneys  „m 
I  hurl  my  speech.  j  ^    unfrequented 

cbÄf  'ifofSa  a'"rJe°^r.U..y  ftnd  iu  «a, 

to  the  sea!  ,  .  sequestered  and  self- 

.S'tf'S.ei^Ä  Vtiveleare*  .bi,  along 

"'Se:^' ^^"i^*^.^Ä?s^rÄtn^. 

üred  bave  I  bec^n^bke^«  j;^«^^^,  ^les. 

No  longer  will  my  SP'"' "a'' °        ,     me:— into  tby  cbar- 

J,'S  sis  r?tapf  Ä -n  thee  will  I  whip  with 
^  5i^l'  crv  and  an  huzza  will  I  traverse ,  wide  seas,  till 

I  fi^'/tJe^SL;^' isles  ^^^J\^^''ST^^  10^ 
And  mine  enemies  amonft  them      «^^        ^^^  ^^^ 
every  one  unto  whom  I  may  but  speafei 

mies  pertain  to  ^y  bhss.  ^         ^hen  doth 

And  when  I  want  to  '"«^"^^"'y  .!"j,  ^y  foot's  ever  ready 
my  spear  always  help  me  up  best,  it  is  my 

servant:—  ,  .      enemies!    How  grateful 

The  spear  which  I  hurl  at  mme  e  .^^ 

am  I  to  mine  enemies  that  1  may  ai  la^ 


XXIV- 


97 


Too  great  hath  been  the  tension  of  my  cloud:  'twixt 
dep^h?*^         ^^  ^^  ^^  "^^  ^  *^'  hail-shower«  into  &e 

Violently  will  my  breast  then  heave;  violently  will  it 
blow  its  storm  over  the  mountains:  thus  comeS  iS 
assuagement.  wu.cuii   iu> 

^nl7\  ^^^  ^  ^*''™  '^^'"^^^  ™y  happiness,  and  my  free- 
dom!  But  mme  enemies  shall  think  that  the  evU  one 
roareth  over  their  heads.  ^ 

Yea,  ye  also,  my  friends,  will  be  alarmed  by  my  wild 
wisdom;  and  perhaps  ye  wül  flee  therefrom,  along  with 
mine  enemies.  &   »th^ 

fln^f  ^aI^w""  ^T  *°  1"'^  y°"  ''««^'^  ^th  shepherds' 
S  A  :i  u*"?  ''''°^'  '^''^°'"  ^o"ld  learn  to  roar 
softly  1     And  much  have  we  already  learned  with  one  an- 

My   wild   wisdom   became  pregnant   on   the  lonesome 
ofTr  ioung."         '■°"'''  "'""""  ^^  '^'  ""'^^  ^'  '^'''^^' 

seeketh  ^T^^.  S^u  "^"^"^  ^"  ^^^  ^"«^  wilderness,  and 
nn^j,t  seeketh  the  soft  sward-mine  old,  wild  wisdom! 
On  the  soft  sward  of  your  hearts,  my  friends!— on  your 

love,  would  she  fam  couch  her  dearest  one!— 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


XXIV.— IN  THE  HAPPY  ISLES 

»nJ^^  figs  fall  from  the  trees,  they  are  good  and  sweet; 
and  m  falling  the  red  skins  of  them  break.  A  north  wind 
am  1  to  ripe  figs. 

'  \rl}^'  ^'^^  ?iP.'  ^"^  ^^  doctrines  fall  for  you,  my  friends: 
imbibe  now  their  jmce  and  their  sweet  substance!  it  is 
autumn  all  around,  and  clear  sky,  and  afternoon. 

Lo,  what  fulness  is  around  us!     And  out  of  the  midst 
2|g^|uper^undance,   it   is  delightful    to  look   out   upon 

Once  did  people  say  God,  when  they  looked  out  upon 


is  \ 


98 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  II 


distant  seas;  now,  however,  have  I  taught  you  to  say, 
Superman. 

God  is  a  conjecture:  but  I  do  not  wish  your  conjecturing 
to  reach  beyond  your  creating  will. 

Could  ye  create  a  God? — ^Then,  I  pray  you,  be  silent 
about  all  Gods!  But  ye  could  well  create  the  Super- 
man. 

Not  perhaps  ye  yourselves,  my  brethren!  But  into  fa- 
thers and  forefathers  of  the  Superman  could  ye  transform 
yourselves:   and  let  that  be  your  best  creating! — 

God  is  a  conjecture:  but  I  should  like  your  conjecturing 
restricted  to  the  conceivable. 

Could  ye  conceive  a  God? — But  let  this  mean  Will  to 
Truth  unto  you,  that  everything  be  transformed  into  the 
humanly  conceivable,  the  humanly  visible,  the  humanly 
sensible!  Your  own  discernment  shall  ye  follow  out  to 
the  end! 

And  what  ye  have  called  the  world  shall  but  be  created 
by  you:  your  reason,  your  likeness,  your  will,  your  love, 
shall  it  itself  become!  And  verily,  for  your  bliss,  ye  dis- 
cerning ones! 

And  how  would  ye  endure  life  without  that  hope,  ye  dis- 
cerning ones?  Neither  in  the  inconceivable  could  ye  have 
been  born,  nor  in  the  irrational. 

But  that  I  may  reveal  my  heart  entirely  unto  you,  my 
friends:  ij  there  were  Gods,  how  could  I  endure  it  to  be 
no  God!     Therefore  there  are  no  Gods. 

Yea,  I  have  drawn  the  conclusion;  now,  however,  doth 
it  draw  me. — 

God  is  a  conjecture:  but  who  could  drink  all  the  bit- 
terness of  this  conjecture  without  dying?  Shall  his  faith 
be  taken  from  the  creating  one,  and  from  the  eagle  his 
flights  into  eagle-heights? 

God  is  a  thought — it  maketh  all  the  straight  crooked, 
and  all  that  standeth  reel.  What?  Time  would  be  gone, 
and  all  the  perishable  would  be  but  a  lie? 

To  think  this  is  giddiness  and  vertigo  to  human  lirnbs, 
and  even  vomiting  to  the  stomach:  verily,  the  reeling  sick- 
ness do  I  call  it,  to  conjecture  such  a  thing. 

Evil  do  I  call  it  and  misanthropic :  all  that  teaching  about 


XXIV— IN  THE  HAPPY  ISLES  99 

the  one,  and  the  plenum,  and  the  unmoved,  and  the  suffi- 
cient, and  the  imperishable! 

All  the  imperishable— that's  but  a  simile,  and  the  poets 
he  too  much. —  ^ 

But  of  time  and  of  becoming  shall  the  best  similes  speak: 
a  praise  shall  they  be,  and  a  justification  of  all  perish- 
ableness ! 

,S^^^}^^^~\^^^  ^s  the  great  salvation  from  suffering,  and 
life  s  alleviation.  But  for  the  creator  to  appear,  suffering 
Itself  is  needed,  and  much  transformation. 

Yea,  much  bitter  dying  must  there  be  in  your  life  ye 
creators!  Thus  are  ye  advocates  and  justifiers  of  all  perish- 
ableness. 

For  the  creator  himself  to  be  the  new-born  child  he 
must  also  be  willing  to  be  the  child-bearer,  and  endure 
the  pangs  of  the  child-bearer. 

Verily,  through  a  hundred  souls  went  I  my  way  and 
through  a  hundred  cradles  and  birth-throes.  Many  a' fare- 
well have  I  taken;  I  know  the  heart-breaking  last' hours 

But  so  willeth  it  my  creating  Will,  my  fate.  Or,  to  tell 
you  It  more  candidly:  just  such  a  fate— willeth  my  Will. 

All  jeeling  suffereth  in  me,  and  is  in  prison:  but  my 
wtlltng  ever  cometh  to  me  as  mine  emancipator  and  com- 
forter. 

Willing  emancipateth:  that  is  the  true  doctrine  of  will 
and  emancipation— so  teacheth  you  Zarathustra. 

No  longer  willing,  and  no  longer  valuing,  and  no  longer 
creating!  Ah,  that  that  great  debility  may  ever  be  far 
from  me! 

And  also  in  discerning  do  I  feel  only  my  will's  pro- 
creating and  evolving  delight;  and  if  there  be  innocence 
in  my  knowledge,  it  is  because  there  is  will  to  procreation 
in  It. 

Away  from  God  and  Gods  did  this  will  allure  me;  what 
would  there  be  to  create  if  there  were— Gods! 

But  to  man  doth  it  ever  impel  me  anew,  my  fervent 
creative  will;  thus  impelleth  it  the  hammer  to  the  stone. 

Ah,  ye  men,  within  the  stone  slumbereth  an  image  for 
me,  the  image  of  my  visions!  Ah,  that  it  should  slumber 
in  the  hardest,  ugliest  stone! 


100 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  II 


Now  rageth  my  hammer  ruthlessly  against  its  prison. 
From  the  stone  fly  the  fragments:  what's  that  to  me? 

I  will  complete  it:  for  a  shadow  came  unto  me — the  still- 
est and  lightest  of  all  things  once  came  unto  me! 

The  beauty  of  the  superman  came  unto  me  as  a  shadow. 
Ah,  my  brethren!  Of  what  account  now  are— the  Gods 
to  me! — 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


XXV— THE  PITIFUL 


lOI 


XXV.— THE  PITIFUL 

My  friends,  there  hath  arisen  a  satire  on  your  friend: 
"Behold  Zarathustra!  Walketh  he  not  amongst  us  as  if 
amongst  animals?" 

But  it  is  better  said  in  this  wise:  "The  discerning  one 
walketh  amongst  men  as  amongst  animals." 

Man  himself  is  to  the  discerning  one:  the  animal  with 

red  cheeks. 

How  hath  that  happened  unto  him?    Is  it  not  because 

he  hath  had  to  be  ashamed  too  oft? 

O  my  friends!  Thus  speaketh  the  discerning  one:  shame, 
shame,  shame— that  is  the  history  of  man! 

And  on  that  account  doth  the  noble  one  enjoin  upon 
himself  not  to  abash:  bashfulness  doth  he  enjoin  on  him- 
self in  presence  of  all  sufferers. 

Verily,  I  like  them  not,  the  merciful  ones,  whose  bliss 
is  in  their  pity:  too  destitute  are  they  of  bashfulness. 

If  I  must  be  pitiful,  I  dislike  to  be  called  so;  and  if 
I  be  so,  it  is  preferably  at  a  distance. 

Preferably  also  do  I  shroud  my  head,  and  flee,  before 
being  recognised:  and  thus  do  I  bid  you  do,  my  friends! 

May  my  destiny  ever  lead  unafflicted  ones  like  you  across 
my  path,  and  those  with  whom  I  may  have  hope  and  repast 
and  honey  in  common! 

Verily,  I  have  done  this  and  that  for  the  afflicted:  but 
something  better  did  I  always  seem  to  do  when  I  had 
learned  to  enjoy  myself  better. 


Since  humanity  came  into  being,  man  hath  enjoyed  him- 
self  too  htüe:   that  alone,  my  brethren,  is  our  original 

sm!  ° 

And  when  we  learn  better  to  enjoy  ourselves,  then  do 
we  unlearn  best  to  give  pain  unto  others,  and  to  contrive 
pain. 

Therefore  do  I  wash  the  hand  that  hath  helped  the 
sufferer;  therefore  do  I  wipe  also  my  soul. 

For  in  seeing  the  sufferer  suffering— thereof  was  I 
ashamed  on  account  of  his  shame;  and  in  helping  him. 
sorely  did  I  wound  his  pride. 

Great  obligations  do  not  make  grateful,  but  revenge- 
ful;  and  when  a  small  kindness  is  not  forgotten,  it  be- 
cometn  a  gnawing  worm. 

"Be  shy  in  accepting!  Distinguish  by  acceptingi  "—thus 
do  1  advise  those  who  have  naught  to  bestow 

I,  however,  am  a  bestower:  wülingly  do  I  bestow  as 
inend  to  friends.  Strangers,  however,  and  the  poor,  may 
pluck  for  themselves  the  fruit  from  my  tree:  thus  doth 
It  cause  less  shame. 

Beggars,  however,  one  should  entirely  do  away  with! 
verily,  it  annoyeth  one  to  give  unto  them,  and  it  annoyeth 
one  not  to  give  unto  them. 

And  likewise  sinners  and  bad  consciences!  Believe  me 
my  friends:  the  sting  of  conscience  teacheth  one  to  sting.  ' 

The  worst  things,  however,  are  the  petty  thoughts. 
Verily  better  to  have  done  evilly  than  to  have  thought 
pettily! 

To  be  sure,  ye  say:  "The  delight  in  petty  evils  spareth 
one  many  a  great  evil  deed."  But  here  one  should  not 
wish  to  be  sparing. 

Like  a  boil  is  the  evil  deed:  it  itcheth  and  irritateth  and 
breaketh   forth— it  speaketh  honourably. 

"Behold,  I  am  disease,"  saith  the  evil  deed:  that  is  its 
nonourableness. 

But  like  infection  is  the  petty  thought:  it  creepeth,  and 
nideth,  and  wanteth  to  be  nowhere— until  the  whole  body 
is  decayed  and  withered  by  the  petty  infection. 

To  him  however,  who  is  possessed  of  a  devil,  I  would 
Whisper  this  word  in  the  ear:  "Better  for  thee  to  rear  up 


102 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  II 


I.  I 


thy  devil  1     Even  for  thee  there  is  still  a  path  to  great- 

nessi " — 

Ah,  my  brethren  1  One  knoweth  a  little  too  much  about 
every'  one!  And  many  a  one  becometh  transparent  to  us, 
but  still  we  can  by  no  means  penetrate  him. 

It  is  difiScult  to  live  among  men  because  silence  is  so 

difficult. 

And  not  to  him  who  is  offensive  to  us  are  we  most 
unfair,  but  to  him  who  doth  not  concern  us  at  all. 

If,  however,  thou  hast  a  suffering  friend,  then  be  a 
resting-place  for  his  suffering;  like  a  hard  bed,  however, 
a  camp-bed:   thus  wilt  thou  serve  him  best. 

And  if  a  friend  doeth  thee  wrong,  then  say:  "I  forgive 
thee  what  thou  hast  done  unto  me;  that  thou  hast  done 
it  unto  thyself,  however— how  could  I  forgive  that!" 

Thus  speaketh  all  great  love:  it  surpasseth  even  forgive- 
ness and  pity. 

One  should  hold  fast  one's  heart;  for  when  one  letteth 
it  go,  how  quickly  doth  one's  head  run  away! 

Ah,  where  in  the  world  have  there  been  greater  follies 
than  with  the  pitiful?  And  what  in  the  world  hath  caused 
more  suffering  than  the  follies  of  the  pitiful? 

Woe  unto  all  loving  ones  who  have  not  an  elevation 
which  is  above  their  pity!  ^ 

Thus  spake  the  devil  unto  me,  once  on  a  time:  Even 
God  hath  his  hell:  it  is  his  love  for  man." 

And  lately,  did  I  hear  him  say  these  words:  "God  is 
dead:   of  his  pity  for  man  hath  God  died."— 

So  be  ye  warned  against  pity:  from  thence  there  yet 
Cometh  unto  men  a  heavy  cloud!     Verily,  I  understand 

weather-signs!  . 

But  attend  also  to  this  word:  All  great  love  is  above 
all  its  pity:  for  it  seeketh— to  create  what  is  loved! 

"Myself  do  I  offer  unto  my  love,  and  my  neighbour  as 
f^yself"— such  is  the  language  of  all  creators. 

All  creators,  however,  are  hard. — 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


XXVI— THE  PRIESTS 


XXVI.— THE  PRIESTS 


103 


\ 


And  one  day  Zarathustra  made  a  sign  to  his  discioles 
and  spake  these  words  unto  them-  "»cipies, 

"Here  are  priests:  but  although  they  are  mine  enemies, 
pass  them  quietly  and  with  sleeping  swords' 

Even  among  them  there  are  heroes;  many  of  them  have 
suffered  too  much-:  so  they  want  to  make  others  suffer. 

Bad  enemies  are  they:  nothing  is  more  revengeful  than 
their  meekness.  And  readily  doth  he  soil  himself  who 
toucheth  them. 

But  my  blood  is  related  to  theirs;  and  I  want  withal 
to  see  my  blood  honoured  in  theirs." 

And  when  they  had  passed,  a  pain  attacked  Zarathustra; 
but  not  long  had  he  struggled  with  the  pain,  when  he  began 
to  speak  thus:  ^ 

It  moveth  my  heart  for  those  priests.     They  also  go 
against  my  taste;  but  that  is  the  smallest  matter  unto  me 
since  I  am  among  men.  ' 

But  I  suffer  and  have  suffered  with  them:  prisoners 
are  they  unto  me  and  stigmatised  ones.  He  whom  they 
call  Saviour  put  them  in  fetters:— 

In  fetters  of  false  values  and  fatuous  words!  Oh  that 
some  one  would  save  them  from  their  Saviour'  ' 

On  an  isle  they  once  thought  they  had  landed,  when  the 

monst°efl  ^^°"*'  ^"^  ^^^°^^'  ^*  ^^^  ^  slumbering 

False  values  and  fatuous  words:  these  are  the  worst  ^< 
monsters  for  mortals-long  slumbereth  and  waiteth  the  / 
fate  that  is  in  them.  ' 

But  at  la,st  it  cometh  and  awaketh  and  devoureth  and 
engulfeth  whatever  hath  built  tabernacles  upon  it 

Oh,  just  look  at  those  tabernacles  which  those  priests 
have  built  themselves!  Churches,  they  call  their  sweet- 
smelling  caves! 

Oh,  that  falsified  light,  that  mustified  air!  Where  the 
soul— may  not  fly  aloft  to  its  height! 

But  so  enjoineth  their  belief:  "On  your  knees,  up  the 
stair,  ye  sinners!"  ,    h  "ic 


104 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  II 


XXVII— THE  VIRTUOUS 


105 


Verily,  rather  would  I  see  a  shameless  one  than  the  dis- 
torted eyes  of  their  shame  and  devotion  I 

Who  created  for  themselves  such  caves  and  penitence- 
stairs?  Was  it  not  those  who  sought  to  conceal  them- 
selves, and  were  ashamed  under  the  clear  sky? 

And  only  when  the  clear  sky  looketh  again  through 
ruined  roofs,  and  down  upon  grass  and  red  poppies  on 
ruined  walls — will  I  again  turn  my  heart  to  the  seats 
of  this  God. 

They  called  God  that  which  opposed  and  afflicted  them: 
and  verily,  there  was  much  hero-spirit  in  their  wor- 
ship ! 

And  they  knew  not  how  to  love  their  God  otherwise 
than  by  nailing  men  to  the  cross! 

As  corpses  Üiey  thought  to  live;  in  black  draped  they 
their  corpses;  even  in  their  talk  do  I  still  feel  the  evil 
flavour  of  charnel-houses. 

And  he  who  liveth  nigh  unto  them  liveth  nigh  unto 
black  pools,  wherein  the  toad  singeth  his  song  with  sweet 
gravity. 

Better  songs  would  they  have  to  sing,  for  me  to  be- 
lieve in  their  Saviour:  more  like  saved  ones  would  his 
disciples  have  to  appear  unto  me! 

Naked,  would  I  like  to  see  them:  for  beauty  alone  should 
preach  penitence.  But  whom  would  that  disguised  afflic- 
tion convince! 

Verily,  their  Saviours  themselves  came  not  from  free- 
dom and  freedom's  seventh  heaven!  Verily,  they  them- 
selves never  trod  the  carpets  of  knowledge! 

Of  defects  did  the  spirit  of  those  Saviours  consist;  but 
into  every  defect  had  they  put  their  illusion,  their  stop- 
gap, which  they  called  God. 

In  their  pity  was  their  spirit  drowned;  and  when  they 
swelled  and  o'erswelled  with  pity,  there  always  floated  to 
the  surface  a  great  folly. 

Eagerly  and  with  shouts  drove  they  their  flock  over 
their  foot-bridge;  as  if  there  were  but  one  foot-bridge  to 
the  future!  Verily,  those  shepherds  also  were  still  of 
the  flock! 

Small  spirits  and  spacious  souls  had  those  shepherds:  but. 


my  brethren,  what  small  domains  have  even  the  most  spa- 
cious souls  hitherto  been! 

Characters  of  blood  did  they  write  on  the  way  they  went, 
and  their  folly  taught  that  truth  is  proved  by  blood. 

But  blood  is  the  very  worst  witness  to  truth;  blood 
tainteth  the  purest  teaching,  and  turneth  it  into  delu- 
sion and  hatred  of  heart. 

And  when  a  person  goeth  through  fire  for  his  teach- 
ing—what doth  that  prove!  It  is  more,  verily,  when  out 
of  one's  own  burning  cometh  one's  own  teaching! 

Sultry  heart  and  cold  head;  where  these  meet,  there 
ariseth  the  blusterer,  the  "Saviour." 

Greater  ones,  verily,  have  there  been,  and  higher-bom 
ones,  than  those  whom  the  people  call  Saviours,  those  rap- 
turous blusterers! 

And  by  still  greater  ones  than  any  of  the  Saviours  must 
ye  be  saved,  my  brethren,  if  ye  would  find  the  way  to 
freedom! 

Never  yet  hath  there  been  a  Superman.  Naked  have 
I  seen  both  of  them,  the  greatest  man  and  the  smallest 
man: — 

All-too-similar  are  they  still  to  each  other.  Verilv.  even 
the  greatest  found  I — all- too-human! — 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


i  -t 


XXVII.— THE  VIRTUOUS 

With  thunder  and  heavenly  fireworks  must  one  speak 
to  indolent  and  somnolent  senses. 

But  beauty's  voice  speaketh  gently:  it  appealeth  only 
to  the  most  awakened  souls. 

Gently  vibrated  and  laughed  unto  me  to-day  my  buckler; 
it  was  beauty's  holy  laughing  and  thrilling. 

At  you,  ye  virtuous  ones,  laughed  my  beauty  to-day. 
And  thus  came  its  voice  unto  me:  "They  want — to  be  paid 
besides!" 

Ye  want  to  be  paid  besides,  ye  viituous  ones!    Ye  want 


io6 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  II 


reward  for  virtue,  and  heaven  for  earth,  and  eternity  for 
your  to-day? 

And  now  ye  upbraid  me  for  teaching  that  there  is  no 
reward-giver,  nor  paymaster?  And  verily,  I  do  not  even 
teach  that  virtue  is  its  own  reward. 

Ah!  this  is  my  sorrow:  into  the  basis  of  things  have 
reward  and  punishment  been  insinuated— and  now  even 
into  the  basis  of  your  souls,  ye  virtuous  ones! 

But  like  the  snout  of  the  boar  shall  my  word  grub  up 
the  basis  of  your  souls;  a  ploughshare  will  I  be  called 
by  you. 

Ail  the  secrets  of  your  heart  shall  be  brought  to  light; 
and  when  ye  lie  in  the  sun,  grubbed  up  and  broken,  then 
will  also  your  falsehood  be  separated  from  your  truth. 

For  this  is  your  truth:  ye  are  too  pure  for  the  filth  of 
the  words:  vengeance,  punishment,  recompense,  retribution. 

Ye  love  your  virtue  as  a  mother  loveth  her  child;  but 
when  did  one  hear  of  a  mother  wanting  to  be  paid  for 
her  love? 

It  is  your  dearest  Self,  your  virtue.  The  ring's  thirst 
is  in  you:  to  reach  itself  again  struggleth  every  ring,  and 
turneth  itself. 

And  like  the  star  that  goeth  out,  so  is  every  work  of 
your  virtue:  ever  is  its  light  on  its  way  and  travelling — 
and  when  will  it  cease  to  be  on  its  way? 

Thus  is  the  light  of  your  virtue  still  on  its  way,  even 
when  its  work  is  done.  Be  it  forgotten  and  dead,  still 
its  ray  of  light  liveth  and  travelleth. 

That  your  virtue  is  your  Self,  and  not  an  outward  thing, 
a  skin,  or  a  cloak:  that  is  the  truth  from  the  basis  of  your 
souls,  ye  virtuous  ones! — 

But  sure  enough  there  are  those  to  whom  virtue  meaneth 
writhing  under  the  lash:  and  ye  have  hearkened  too  much 
unto  their  crying  1 

And  others  are  there  who  call  virtue  the  slothfulness  of 
their  vices;  and  when  once  their  hatred  and  jealousy  relax 
the  limbs,  their  "justice"  becometh  lively  and  rubbeth  its 
sleepy  eyes. 

And  others  are  there  who  are  drawn  downwards:  their 
devils  draw  them.     But  the  more  they  sink,   the  more 


XXVII— THE  VIRTUOUS 


107 


ardently   gloweth    their   eye,    and    the   longing   for    their 
God. 

Ah!  their  crying  also  hath  reached  your  ears,  ye  virtu- 
ous ones:  "What  I  am  not,  that,  that  is  God  to  me,  and 
virtue!" 

And  others  are  there  who  go  along  heavily  and  creak- 
ingly,  like  carts  taking  stones  downhill:  they  talk  much 
of  dignity  and  virtue — their  drag  they  call  virtue! 

And  others  are  there  who  are  like  eight-day  clocks  when 
wound  up;  they  tick,  and  want  people  to  call  ticking — 
virtue. 

Verily,  in  those  have  I  mine  amusement:  wherever  I 
find  such  clocks  I  shall  wind  them  up  with  my  mockery^ 
and  they  shall  even  whirr  thereby!  j 

And  others  are  proud  of  their  modicum  of  righteous- 
ness, and  for  the  sake  of  it  do  violence  to  all  things:  so 
that  the  world  is  drowned  in  their  unrighteousness. 

Ah!  how  ineptly  cometh  the  word  "virtue"  out  of  their 
mouth!  And  when  they  say:  "I  am  just,"  it  always  sound- 
eth  like:  "I  am  just — revenged!" 

With  their  virtues  they  want  to  scratch  out  the  eyes 
of  their  enemies;  and  they  elevate  themselves  only  that 
they  may  lower  others. 

And  again  there  are  those  who  sit  in  their  swamp,  and 
speak  thus  from  among  the  bulrushes:  "Virtue — that  is  to 
sit  quietly  in  the  swamp. 

We  bite  no  one,  and  go  out  of  the  way  of  him  who  would 
bite;  and  in  all  matters  we  have  the  opinion  that  is 
given  us." 

And  again  there  are  those  who  love  attitudes,  and  think 
that  virtue  is  a  sort  of  attitude. 

Their  knees  continually  adore,  and  their  hands  are  eulo- 
gies of  virtue,  but  their  heart  knoweth  naught  thereof. 

And  again  there  are  those  who  regard  it  as  virtue  to  say: 
"Virtue  is  necessary";  but  after  all  they  believe  only  that 
policemen  are  necessary. 

And  many  a  one  who  cannot  see  men's  loftiness,  calleth 
it  virtue  to  see  their  baseness  far  too  well:  thus  calleth 
he  his  evil  eye  virtue. — 

And  some  want  to  be  edified  and  raised  up,  and  call  it 


y 


f  '     io8 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  II 


virtue:  and  others  want  to  be  cast  down, — and  likewise  call 
it  virtue. 

'  And  thus  do  almost  all  think  that  they  participate  in 
virtue;  and  at  least  every  one  claimeth  to  be  an  authority 
on  "good"  and  "evil." 

But  Zarathustra  came  not  to  say  unto  all  those  liars  and 
fools:  "What  do  ye  know  of  virtue!  What  could  ye  know 
of  virtue!" — 

But  that  ye,  my  friends,  might  become  weary  of  the 
old  words  which  ye  have  learned  from  the  fools  and  liars: 

That  ye  might  become  weary  of  the  words  "reward," 
"retribution,"  "punishment,"  "righteous  vengeance." — 

That  ye  might  become  weary  of  saying:  "That  an  action 
is  good  is  because  it  is  unselfish." 

Ah!  my  friends!  That  your  very  Self  be  in  your  action, 
as  the  mother  is  in  the  child:  let  that  be  your  formula  of 
virtue  I 

h  Verily,  I  have  taken  from  you  a  hundred  formulae  and 
your  virtue's  favourite  playthings;  and  now  ye  upbraid 
me,  as  children  upbraid. 

They  played  by  the  sea — then  came  there  a  wave  and 
swept  their  playthings  into  the  deep:  and  now  do  they 
cry. 

But  the  same  wave  shall  bring  them  new  playthings,  and 
spread  before  them  new  speckled  shells! 

Thus  will  they  be  comforted;  and  like  them  shall  ye 
also,  rpy  friends,  have  your  comforting — and  new  speckled 
shells! — 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


XXVIII.— THE  RABBLE 

Life  is  a  well  of  delight;    but   where  the  rabble  also 
drink,  there  all  fountains  are  poisoned. 
,  To  everything  cleanly  am  I  well  disposed;  but  I  hate 
to  see  the  grinning  mouths  and  the  thirst  of  the  unclean. 

They    cast    their    eye    down    into    the    fountain:    and 


XXVIII— THE  RABBLE  109 

now  glanceth  up  to  me  their  odious  smile  out  of  the 
fountain. 

The  holy  water  have  they  poisoned  with  their  lustful- 
ness;   and  when  they  called  their  filthy  dreams  delight 
then  poisoned  they  also  the  words.  ' 

Indignant  becometh  the  flame  when  they  put  their  damp 
hearts  to  the  fire;  the  spirit  itself  bubbleth  and  smoketh 
when  the  rabble  approach  the  fire. 

Mawkish  and  over-mellow  becometh  the  fruit  in  their 
hands:  unsteady,  and  withered  at  the  top,  doth  their  look 
make  the  fruit-tree. 

And  many  a  one  who  hath  turned  away  from  life,  hath 
only  turned  away  from  the  rabble:  he  hated  to  share  with 
them  fountain,  flame,  and  fruit. 

And  many  a  one  who  hath  gone  into  the  wilderness  and 
suffered  thirst  with  beasts  of  prey,  disliked  only  to  sit  at 
the  cistern  with  filthy  camel-drivers. 

And  many  a  one  who  hath  come  along  as  a  destroyer, 
and  as  a  hailstorm  to  all  cornfields,  wanted  merely  to  put 
his  foot  into  the  jaws  of  the  rabble,  and  thus  stop  their 
throat. 

And  it  is  not  the  mouthful  which  hath  most  choked  me, 
to  know  that  life  itself  requireth  enmity  and  death  and 
torture-crosses : — 

But  I  asked  once,  and  suffocated  almost  with  my  ques- 
üon:  What?  is  the  rabble  also  necessary  for  life? 

Are  poisoned  fountains  necessary,  and  stinking  fires,  and 
filthy  dreams,  and  maggots  in  the  bread  of  life? 

Not  my  hatred,  but  my  loathing,  gnawed  hungrily  at  my 
life!  Ah,  ofttimes  became  I  weary  of  spirit,  when  I  found 
even  the  rabble  spiritual! 

And  on  the  rulers  turned  I  my  back,  when  I  saw  what 
they  now  call  ruling:  to  traffic  and  bargain  for  power— 
with  the  rabble! 

Amongst  peoples  of  a  strange  language  did  I  dwell,  with 
stopped  ears:  so  that  the  language  of  their  trafficking  might 
remain  strange  unto  me,  and  their  bargaining  for  power. 

And  holding  my  nose,  I  went  morosely  through  all  yes- 
terdays and  to-days:  verily,  badly  smell  all  yesterdays  and 
to-days  of  the  scribbling  rabble! 


/ 
ifio 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  II 


XXIX— THE  TARANTULAS 


III 


Like  a  cripple  become  deaf,  and  blind,  and  dumb — 
thus  have  I  lived  long;  that  I  might  not  live  with  the 
power-rabble,  the  scribe-rabble,  and  the  pleasure-rabble. 

Toilsomely  did  my  spirit  mount  stairs,  and  cautiously; 
alms  of  delight  were  its  refreshment;  on  the  staff  did  life 
creep  along  with  the  blind  one. 

What  hath  happened  unto  me?  How  have  I  freed  my- 
self from  loathing?  Who  hath  rejuvenated  mine  eye? 
How  have  I  flown  to  the  height  where  no  rabble  any  longer 

sit  at  the  wells? 

Did  my  loathing  itself  create  for  me  wings  and  fountam- 
divining  powers?  Verily,  to  the  loftiest  height  had  I  to 
fly,  to  find  again  the  well  of  delight! 

Oh,  I  have  found  it,  my  brethren!  Here  on  the  loftiest 
height  bubbleth  up  for  me  the  well  of  delight!  And  there 
is  a  life  at  whose  waters  none  of  the  rabble  drink  with  me! 

Almost  too  violently  dost  thou  flow  for  me,  thou  foun- 
tain of  delight!  And  often  emptiest  thou  the  goblet  again, 
in  wanting  to  fill  it! 

And  yet  must  I  learn  to  approach  thee  more  modestly: 
far  too  violently  doth  my  heart  still  flow  towards  thee: — 

My  heart  on  which  my  summer  bumeth,  my  short,  hot, 
melancholy,  over-happy  summer:  how  my  summer  heart 
longeth  for  thy  coolness! 

Past,  the  lingering  distress  of  my  spring!  Past,  the  wick- 
edness of  my  snowflakes  in  June!  Summer  have  I  become 
entirely,  and  summer-noontide! 

A  summer  on  the  loftiest  height,  with  cold  fountains 
and  blissful  stillness:  oh,  come,  my  friends,  that  the  still- 
ness may  become  more  blissful! 

For  this  is  our  height  and  our  home:  too  high  and  steep 
do  we  here  dwell  for  all  uncleanly  ones  and  their  thirst. 

Cast  but  your  pure  eyes  into  the  well  of  my  delight,  my 
friends!  How  could  it  become  turbid  thereby!  It  shall 
laugh  back  to  you  with  its  purity. 

On  the  tree  of  the  future  build  we  our  nest;  eagles  shall 
bring  us  lone  ones  food  in  their  beaks! 

Verily,  no  food  of  which  the  impure  could  be  fellow- 
partakers!  Fire,  would  they  think  they  devoured,  and  bum 
their  mouths! 


Verily,  no  abodes  do  we  here  keep  ready  for  the  impure! 
An  ice-cave  to  their  bodies  would  our  happiness  be  and 
to  their  spirits!  ' 

And  as  strong  winds  will  we  live  above  them,  neigh- 
bours to  the  eagles,  neighbours  to  the  snow,  neighbours 
to  the  sun:   thus  live  the  strong  winds. 

And  like  a  wind  will  I  one  day  blow  amongst  them,  and 
with  my  spirit,  take  the  breath  from  their  spirit:  thus 
willeth  my  future. 

Verily,  a  strong  wind  is  Zarathustra  to  all  low  places: 
and  this  counsel  counselleth  he  to  his  enemies,  and  to  what- 
ever spitteth  and  speweth:  "Take  care  not  to  spit  amnst 
the  wind!" —  ^ 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


XXIX.— THE  TARANTULAS 

Lo,  this  is  the  tarantula's  den!  Would'st  thou  see  the 
tarantula  itself?  Here  hangeth  its  web:  touch  this,  so 
that  it  may  tremble. 

There  cometh  the  tarantula  willingly:  Welcome,  tarantula! 
Black  on  thy  back  is  thy  triangle  and  symbol;  and  I  know 
also  what  is  in  thy  soul. 

Revenge  is  in  thy  soul:  wherever  thou  bitest,  there  ariseth 
black  scab;  with  revenge,  thy  poison  maketh  the  soul 
giddy! 

Thus  do  I  speak  unto  you  in  parable,  ye  who  make  the 
soul  giddy,  ye  preachers  of  equality!  Tarantulas  are  ye 
unto  me,  and  secretly  revengeful  ones! 

But  I  will  soon  bring  your  hiding-places  to  the  light: 
therefore  do  I  laugh  in  your  face  my  laughter  of  the  height. 

Therefore  do  I  tear  at  your  web,  that  your  rage  may 
lure  you  out  of  your  den  of  lies,  and  that  your  revenge 
may  leap  forth  from  behind  your  word  "justice." 

Because,  for  man  to  be  redeemed  from  revenge— that 
IS  for  me  the  bridge  to  the  highest  hope,  and  a  rainbow 
after  long  storms. 

Otherwise,  however,  would  the  tarantulas  have  it.    "Let 


112 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  II 


XXIX— THE  TARANTULAS 


"3 


I 


it  be  very  justice  for  the  world  to  become  full  of  the  storms 
of  our  vengeance" — thus  do  they  talk  to  one  another. 

"Vengeance  will  we  use,  and  insult,  against  all  who  are 
not  like  us" — thus  do  the  tarantula-hearts  pledge  them- 
selves. 

"And  *Will  to  Equality' — that  itself  shall  henceforth  be 
the  name  of  virtue;  and  against  all  that  hath  power  will 
we  raise  an  outcry!" 

Ye  preachers  of  equality,  the  tyrant-frenzy  of  impotence 
crieth  thus  in  you  for  "equality":  your  most  secret  tyrant- 
longings  disguise  themselves  thus  in  virtue- words  I 

Fretted  conceit  and  suppressed  envy — perhaps  your  fa- 
thers' conceit  and  envy:  in  you  break  they  forth  as  flame 
and  frenzy  of  vengeance. 

What  the  father  hath  hid  cometh  out  in  the  son;  and 
oft  have  I  found  the  son  the  father's  revealed  secret. 

Inspired  ones  they  resemble:  but  it  is  not  the  heart  that 
inspireth  them — but  vengeance.  And  when  they  become 
subtle  and  cold,  it  is  not  spirit,  but  envy,  that  maketh 
them  so. 

Their  jealousy  leadeth  them  also  into  thinkers'  paths; 
and  this  is  the  sign  of  their  jealousy — they  always  go  too 
far:  so  that  their  fatigue  hath  at  last  to  go  to  sleep  on 
the  snow. 

In  all  their  lamentations  soimdeth  vengeance,  in  all  their 
eulogies  is  maleficence;  and  being  judge  seemeth  to  them 
bliss. 

But  thus  do  I  counsel  you,  my  friends:  distrust  all  in 
whom  the  impulse  to  punish  is  powerful  1 

They  are  people  of  bad  race  and  lineage;  out  of  their 
countenances  peer  the  hangman  and  the  sleuth-hound. 

Distrust  all  those  who  talk  much  of  their  justice  1  Verily, 
in  their  souls  not  only  honey  is  lacking. 

And  when  they  call  themselves  "the  good  and  just,"  for- 
get not,  that  for  them  to  be  Pharisees,  nothing  is  lacking 
but — power ! 

My  friends,  I  will  not  be  mixed  up  and  confoimded  with 
others. 

There  are  those  who  preach  my  doctrine  of  life,  and 
are  at  the  same  time  preachers  of  equality,  and  tarantulas. 


That  they  speak  in  favour  of  life,  though  they  sit  in 
their  den,  these  poison-spiders,  and  withdrawn  from  life — 
is  because  they  would  thereby  do  injury. 

To  those  would  they  thereby  do  injury  who  have  power 
at  present:  for  with  those  the  preaching  of  death  is  still 
most  at  home. 

Were  it  otherwise,  then  would  the  tarantulas  teach 
otherwise:  and  they  themselves  were  formerly  the  best 
world-maligners  and  heretic-burners. 

With  these  preachers  of  equality  will  I  not  be  mixed  up 
and  confounded.  For  thus  speaketh  justice  unto  me:  "Men 
are  not  equal." 

And  neither  shall  they  become  sol  What  would  be  my 
love  to  the  Superman,  if  I  spake  otherwise? 

On  a  thousand  bridges  and  piers  shall  they  throng  to 
the  future,  and  always  shall  there  be  more  war  and  in- 
equality among  them:  thus  doth  my  great  love  make  me 
speak! 

Inventors  of  figures  and  phantoms  shall  they  be  in  their 
hostilities;  and  with  those  figures  and  phantoms  shall  they 
yet  fight  with  each  other  the  supreme  fight! 

Good  and  evil,  and  rich  and  poor,  and  high  and  low, 
and  all  names  of  values:  weapons  shall  they  be,  and  sound- 
ing signs,  that  life  must  again  and  again  surpass  itself! 

Aloft  will  it  build  itself  with  columns  and  stairs — life 
itself:  into  remote  distances  would  it  gaze,  and  out  towards 
blissful  beauties — therefore  doth  it  require  elevation! 

And  because  it  requireth  elevation,  therefore  doth  it  re- 
quire steps,  and  variance  of  steps  and  climbers!  To  rise 
striveth  life,  and  in  rising  to  surpass  itself. 

And  just  behold,  my  friends!  Here  where  the  tarantula's 
den  is,  riseth  aloft  an  ancient  temple's  ruins — just  behold 
it  with  enlightened  eyes! 

Verily,  he  who  here  towered  aloft  his  thoughts  in  stone, 
knew  as  well  as  the  wisest  ones  about  the  secret  of 
life! 

That  there  is  struggle  and  inequality  even  in  beauty,  and 
war  for  power  and  supremacy:  that  doth  he  here  teach  us 
in  the  plainest  parable. 

How  divinely  do  vault  and  arch  here  contrast  in  the 


114  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  II 

struggle:  how  with  light  and  shade  they  strive  against 
each  other,  the  divinely  striving  ones. — 

Thus,  steadfast  and  beautiful,  let  us  also  be  enemies,  my 
friends!    Divinely  will  we  strive  against  one  another  1 — 

Alas!  There  hath  the  tarantula  bit  me  myself,  mine 
old  enemy!  Divinely  steadfast  and  beautiful,  it  hath  bit 
me  on  the  finger! 

"Punishment  must  there  be,  and  justice"— so  thinketh 
it:  "not  gratuitously  shall  he  here  sing  songs  in  honour 
of  enmity!" 

Yea,  it  hath  revenged  itself!  And  alas!  now  will  it  make 
my  soul  also  dizzy  with  revenge! 

That  I  may  not  turn  dizzy,  however,  bind  me  fast,  my 
friends,  to  this  pillar!  Rather  will  I  be  a  pillar-saint  than 
a  whirl  of  vengeance! 

Verily,  no  cyclone  or  whiriwind  is  Zarathustra:  and  if  he 
be  a  dancer,  he  is  not  at  all  a  tarantula-dancer  I — 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


XXX— THE  FAMOUS  WISE  ONES 


115 


XXX.— THE  FAMOUS  WISE  ONES 

The  people  have  ye  served  and  the  people's  superstition — 
not  the  truth! — all  ye  famous  wise  ones!  And  just  on  that 
account  did  they  pay  you  reverence. 

And  on  that  account  also  did  they  tolerate  your  un- 
belief, because  it  was  a  pleasantry  and  a  by-path  for  the 
people.  Thus  doth  the  master  give  free  scope  to  his  slaves, 
and  even  enjoyeth  their  presumptuousness. 

But  he  who  is  hated  by  the  people,  as  the  wolf  by 
the  dogs— is  the  free  spirit,  the  enemy  of  fetters,  the  non- 
adorer,  the  dweller  in  the  woods. 

To  hunt  him  out  of  his  lair — that  was  always  called 
"sense  of  right"  by  the  people:  bn  him  do  they  still  hound 
their  sharpest-toothed  dogs. 

"For  there  the  truth  is^  where  the  people  are!  Woe, 
woe  to  the  seeking  ones!"-^thus  hath  it  echoed  through 
all  time. 


Your  people  would  ye  justify  in  their  reverence:  that 
called  ye  "Will  to  Truth,"  ye  famous  wise  ones! 

And  your  heart  hath  always  said  to  itself:  "From  the 
people  have  I  come:  from  thence  came  to  me  also  the 
voice  of  God." 

Stiff-necked  and  artful,  like  the  ass,  have  ye  always  been, 
as  the  advocates  of  the  people. 

And  many  a  powerful  one  who  wanted  to  run  well  with 
the  people,  hath  harnessed  in  front  of  his  horses — a  donkey, 
a  famous  wise  man. 

And  now,  ye  famous  wise  ones,  I  would  have  you  finally 
throw  off  entirely  the  skin  of  the  lion! 

The  skin  of  the  beast  of  prey,  the  speckled  skin,  and 
the  dishevelled  locks  of  the  investigator,  the  searcher,  and 
the  conqueror! 

Ah!  for  me  to  learn  to  believe  in  your  "conscientiousness," 
ye  would  first  have  to  break  your  venerating  will. 

Conscientious — so  call  I  him  who  goeth  into  God-forsaken 
wildernesses,  and  hath  broken  his  venerating  heart. 

In  the  yellow  sands  and  burnt  by  the  sun,  he  doubtless 
peereth  thirstily  at  the  isles  rich  in  fountains,  where  life 
reposeth  under  shady  trees. 

But  his  thirst  doth  not  persuade  him  to  become  like  those 
comfortable  ones:  for  where  there  are  oases,  there  are 
also  idols. 

Hungry,  fierce,  lonesome,  God-forsaken:  so  doth  the  Hon- 
ivill  wish  itself. 

Free  from  the  happiness  of  slaves,  redeemed  from  Deities 
and  adorations,  fearless  and  fear-inspiring,  grand  and  lone- 
some: so  is  the  will  of  the  conscientious. 

In  the  wilderness  have  ever  dwelt  the  conscientious,  the 
free  spirits,  as  lords  of  the  wilderness;  but  in  the  cities  dwell 
the  well-foddered,  famous  wise  ones — the  draught-beasts. 

For,  always,  do  they  draw,  as  asses — the  people's  carts! 

Not  that  I  on  that  account  upbraid  them:  but  serving 
ones  do  they  remain,  and  harnessed  ones,  even  though  they 
glitter  in  golden  harness. 

And  often  have  they  been  good  servants  and  worthy  of 
their  hire.  For  thus  saith  virtue:  "If  thou  must  be  a  serv- 
ant, seek  him  unto  whom  thy  service  is  most  useful! 


ii6  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  II 

The  spirit  and  virtue  of  thy  master  shall  advance  by 
thou  being  his  servant:  thus  wilt  thou  thyself  advance  with 
his  spirit  and  virtue  I '^ 

And  verily,  ye  famous  wise  ones,  ye  servants  of  the  peo- 
ple I  Ye  yourselves  have  advanced  with  the  people's  spirit 
and  virtue— and  the  people  by  youl  To  your  honour  do 
I  say  iti 

But  the  people  ye  remain  for  me,  even  with  your  virtues, 
the  people  with  purblind  eyes— the  people  who  know  not 
what  spirit  is! 

Spirit  is  life  which  itself  cutteth  into  Ufe:  by  its  own 
torture  doth  it  increase  its  own  knowledge,— did  ye  know 
that  before? 

And  the  spirit's  happiness  is  this:  to  be  anointed  and 
consecrated  with  tears  as  a  sacrificial  victim,— did  ye  know 
that  before?  ^ 

And  the  blindness  of  the  blind  one,  and  his  seeking  and 
groping,  shall  yet  testify  to  the  power  of  the  sun  into  which 
he  hath  gazed, — did  ye  know  that  before? 

And  with  mountains  shall  the  discerning  one  learn  to 
build/  It  is  a  small  thing  for  the  spirit  to  remove  moun- 
tains,— did  ye  know  that  before? 

Ye  know  only  the  sparks  of  the  spirit:  but  ye  do  not 
see  the  anvil  which  it  is,  and  the  cruelty  of  its  hammer  1 

Verily,  ye  know  not  the  spirit's  pride!  But  still  less 
could  ye  endure  the  spirit's  humility,  should  it  ever  want 
to  speak! 

And  never  yet  could  ye  cast  your  spirit  into  a  pit  of  snow: 
ye  are  not  hot  enough  for  that!  Thus  are  ye  unaware,  also, 
of  the  delight  of  its  coldness. 

In  all  respects,  however,  ye  make  too  familiar  with  the 
spirit;  and  out  of  wisdom  have  ye  often  made  an  alms- 
house and  a  hospital  for  bad  poets. 

Ye  are  not  eagles:  thus  have  ye  never  experienced  the 
happiness  of  the  alarm  of  the  spirit.  And  he  who  is  not 
a  bird  should  not  camp  above  abysses. 

Ye  seem  to  me  lukewarm  ones:  but  coldly  floweth  all 
deep  knowledge.  Ice-cold  are  the  innermost  wells  of  the 
spirit:  a  refreshment  to  hot  hands  and  handlers. 

Respectable  do  ye  there  stand,  and  stiff,  and  with  straight 


XXXI— THE  NIGHT-SONG  117 

backs,  ye  famous  wise  ones!— no  strong  wind  or  will  im- 
pelleth  you. 

Have  ye  ne'er  seen  a  sail  crossing  the  sea,  rounded  and 
inflated,  and  trembling  with  the  violence  of  the  wind? 

Like  the  sail  trembling  with  the  violence  of  the  spirit, 
doth  my  wisdom  cross  the  sea— my  wild  wisdom! 

But  ye  servants  of  the  people,  ye  famous  wise  ones— how 
could  ye  go  with  me! — 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 

XXXI.— THE  NIGHT-SONG 

'TIS  night:  now  do  all  gushing  fountains  speak  louder. 
And  my  soul  also  is  a  gushing  fountain. 

'Tis  night:  now  only  do  all  songs  of  the  loving  ones 
awake.    And  my  soul  also  is  the  song  of  a  loving  one. 

Something  unappeased,  unappeasable,  is  within  me;  it 
longeth  to  find  expression.  A  craving  for  love  is  within  me, 
which  speaketh  itself  the  language  of  love. 

Light  am  I:  ah,  that  I  were  night!  But  it  is  my  lone- 
someness  to  be  begirt  with  light! 

Ah,  that  I  were  dark  and  nightly!  How  would  I  suck 
at  the  breasts  of  light! 

And  you  yourselves  would  I  bless,  ye  twinkling  starlets 
and  glow-worms  aloft!— and  would  rejoice  in  the  gifts  of 
your  light. 

But  I  live  in  mine  own  light,  I  drink  again  into  myself 
the  flames  that  break  forth  from  me. 

I  know  not  the  happiness  of  the  receiver;  and  oft  have 
I  dreamt  that  stealing  must  be  more  blessed  than  receiving. 

It  is  my  poverty  that  my  hand  never  ceaseth  bestowing; 
it  is  mine  envy  that  I  see  waiting  eyes  and  the  brightened 
nights  of  longing. 

Oh,  the  misery  of  all  bestowers!  Oh,  the  darkening  of 
my  sun!  Oh,  the  craving  to  crave!  Oh,  the  violent  hunger 
in  satiety! 

They  take  from  me:  but  do  I  yet  touch  their  soul?  There 
is  a  gap  'twixt  giving  and  receiving;  and  the  smallest  gap 
hath  finally  to  be  bridged  over. 


ii8 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  II 


A  hunger  ariseth  out  of  my  beauty:  I  should  like  to 
injure  those  I  illumine;  I  should  like  to  rob  those  I  have 
gifted: — thus  do  I  hunger  for  wickedness. 

Withdrawing  my  hand  when  another  hand  already 
stretcheth  out  to  it;  hesitating  like  the  cascade,  which  hesi- 
tateth  even  in  its  leap:— thus  do  I  hunger  for  wicked- 

ness ! 

Such  revenge  doth  mine  abundance  think  of:  such  mis- 
chief welleth  out  of  my  lonesomeness. 

My  happiness  in  bestowing  died  in  bestowing;  my  virtue 
became  weary  of  itself  by  its  abundance! 

He  who  ever  bestoweth  is  in  danger  of  losing  his  shame; 
to  him  who  ever  dispenseth,  the  hand  and  heart  becomes 
callous  by  very  dispensing. 

Mine  eye  no  longer  overfloweth  for  the  shame  of  sup- 
pliants; my  hand  hath  become  too  hard  for  the  trembling 

of  filled  hands. 

Whence  have  gone  the  tears  of  mine  eye,  and  the  down 
of  my  heart?  Oh,  the  lonesomeness  of  all  bestowersi  Oh, 
the  silence  of  all  shining  ones! 

Many  suns  circle  in  desert  space:  to  all  that  is  dark 
do   they   speak   with   their   light— but   to   me    they   are 

silent. 

Oh,  this  is  the  hostility  of  light  to  the  shining  one:  un- 

pityingly  doth  it  pursue  its  course. 

Unfair  to  the  shining  one  in  its  innermost  heart,  cold  to 
the  suns:— thus  travelleth  every  sun. 

Like  a  storm  do  the  suns  pursue  their  courses:  that  is 
their  travelling.    Their  inexorable  will  do  they  follow:  that 

is  their  coldness. 

Oh,  ye  only  is  it,  ye  dark,  nightly  ones,  that  extract 
warmth  from  the  shining  ones!  Oh,  ye  only  drink  milk  and 
refreshment  from  the  light's  udders! 

Ah,  there  is  ice  around  me;  my  hand  bumeth  with  the 
iciness!     Ah,  there  is  thirst  in  me;  it  panteth  after  your 

thirst!  ^  ^    ^    ,..   . 

Tis  night:  alas,  that  I  have  to  be  light!  And  thirst 
for  the  nightly!     And  lonesomeness! 

Tis  night:  now  doth  my  longing  break  forth  in  me  as 
a  fountain,— for  speech  do  I  long. 


XXXII— THE  DANCE-SONG  119 

Tis  night:  now  do  all  gushing  fountains  speak  louder 
And  my  soul  also  is  a  gushing  fountain. 

Tis  night:  now  do  all  songs  of  loving  ones  awake.  And 
my  soul  also  is  the  song  of  a  loving  one.— 

Thus  sang  Zarathustra. 


XXXIL— THE  DANCE-SONG 

One  evening  went  Zarathustra  and  his  disciples  through 
the  forest;  and  when  he  sought  for  a  well,  lo,  he  lighted 
upon  a  green  meadow  peacefully  surrounded  with  trees 
and  bushes,  where  maidens  were  dancing  together.  As  soon 
as  the  maidens  recognised  Zarathustra,  they  ceased  dancing- 
Zarathustra,  however,  approached  them  with  friendly  mein 
and  spake  these  words: 

Cease  not  your  dancing,  ye  lovely  maidens!     No  game- 

maTden  ^^^^  ^^  ^^^  ^^*  ^^^'  ^^^'  ^^  ^^^^^  ^^ 

God's  advocate  am  I  with  the  devil:  he,  however,  is 
the  spirit  of  gravity  How  could  I,  ye  light-footed  ones, 
be  hostile  to  divine  dances?  Or  to  maidens'  feet  with  fine 
ankles? 

hJl  ^^^^"'?'  ^  ^^/  forest,  and  a  night  of  dark  trees:  ^ 
but  he  who  IS  not  afraid  of  my  darkness,  will  find  banks  ^ 
lull  ot  roses  under  my  cypresses. 

And  even  the  little  God  may  he  find,  who  is  dearest 
to  maidens:  beside  the  well  lieth  he  quietly,  with  closed 

Verily,  in  broad  daylight  did  he  fall  asleep,  the  sluggard! 
wad  he  perhaps  chased  butterflies  too  much? 

Upbraid  me  not,  ye  beautiful  dancers,  when  I  chasten 
the  little  God  somewhat!  He  will  cry,  certainly,  and  weep 
—out  he  is  laughable  even  when  weeping! 

And  with  tears  in  his  eyes  shall  he  ask  you  for  a  dance- 
and  I  myself  will  sing  a  song  to  his  dance:  ' 

A  dance-song  and  satire  on  the  spirit  of  gravity  my  su- 
premest,  powerfulest  devil,  who  is  said  to  be  "lord  of  the 


120 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  II 


■»I! 
'11 


And  this  is  the  song  that  Zarathustra  sang  when  Cupid 
and   the  maidens   danced   together: 

Of  late  did  I  gaze  into  thine  eye,  O  Life!  And  into 
the  unfathomable  did  I  there  seem  to  sink. 

But  thou  pulledst  me  out  with  a  golden  angle;  derisively 
didst  thou  laugh  when  I  called  thee  unfathomable. 

"Such  is  the  language  of  all  fish,"  saidst  thou;  "what 
they  do  not  fathom  is  unfathomable. 

But  changeable  am  I  only,  and  wild,  and  altogether  a 
woman,  and  no  virtuous  one: 

Though  I  be  called  by  you  men  the  'profound  one,'  or 
the  ^faithful  one,'  'the  eternal  one,'  'the  mysterious  one.' 

But  ye  men  endow  us  always  with  your  own  virtues — 
alas,  ye  virtuous  ones!" 

Thus  did  she  laugh,  the  unbelievable  one;  but  never 
do  I  believe  her  and  her  laughter,  when  she  speaketh  evil 
of  herself. 

And  when  I  talked  face  to  face  with  my  wild  Wisdom, 
she  said  to  me  angrily:  "Thou  wiliest,  thou  cravest,  thou 
lovest;  on  that  account  alone  dost  thou  praise  Life!" 

Then  had  I  almost  answered  indignantly  and  told  the 
truth  to  the  angry  one;  and  one  cannot  answer  more  in- 
dignantly than  when  one  "telleth  the  truth"  to  one's 
Wisdom. 

For  thus  do  things  stand  with  us  three.  In  my  heart 
do  I  love  only  Life — and  verily,  most  when  I  hate  her  I 

But  that  I  am  fond  of  Wisdom,  and  often  too  fond, 
is  because  she  remindeth  me  very  strongly  of  Life! 

She  hath  her  eye,  her  laugh,  and  even  her  golden  angle- 
rod:  am  I  responsible  for  it  that  both  are  so  alike? 

And  when  once  Life  asked  me:  "Who  is  she  then,  this 
Wisdom?" — then  said  I  eagerly:  "Ah,  yes!     Wisdom! 

One  thirsteth  for  her  and  is  not  satisfied,  one  looketh 
through  veils,  one  graspeth  through  nets. 

Is  she  beautiful?  What  do  I  know!  But  the  oldest 
carps  are  still  lured  by  her. 

Changeable  is  she,  and  wayward;  often  have  I  seen  her 
bite  her  lip,  and  pass  the  comb  against  the  grain  of  her 
hair. 


XXXIII— THE  GRAVE-SONG 


121 


Perhaps  she  is  wicked  and  false,  and  altogether  a  woman; 
but  when  she  speaketh  ill  of  herself,  just  then  doth  she 
seduce  most." 

When  I  had  said  this  unto  Life,  then  laughed  she  mali- 
ciously, and  shut  her  eyes.  "Of  whom  dost  thou  speak?" 
said  she.     "Perhaps  of  me? 

And  if  thou  wert  right— is  it  proper  to  say  that  in  such 
wise  to  my  face!  But  now,  pray,  speak  also  of  thy 
Wisdom!"  ^ 

Ah,  and  now  hast  thou  again»  opened  thine  eyes,  O 
beloved  Life!  And  into  the  unfathomable  have  I  again 
seemed  to  sink. — 

Thus  sang  Zarathustra.  But  when  the  dance  was  over 
and  the  maidens  had  departed,  he  became  sad. 

"The  sun  hath  been  long  set,"  said  ne  at  last,  "the 
meadow  is  damp,  and  from  the  forest  cometh  coolness. 

An  unknown  presence  is  about  me,  and  gazeth  thought- 
fully.   What!     Thou  livest  still,  Zarathustra? 

Why?  Wherefore?  Whereby?  Whither?  Where? 
How?    Is  it  not  folly  still  to  live?— 

Ah,  my  friends ;  the  evening  is  it  which  thus  interrogateth 
in  me.    Forgive  me  my  sadness! 

Evening  hath  come  on:  forgive  me  that  evening  hath 
come  on!" 

Thus  sang  Zarathustra. 


XXXIII.— THE  GRAVE-SONG 

"Yonder  is  the  grave-island,  the  silent  isle;  yonder  also 
are  the  graves  of  my  youth.  Thither  will  I  carry  an  ever- 
green wreath  of  life." 

Resolving  thus  in  my  heart,  did  I  sail  o'er  the  sea. — 

Oh,  ye  sights  and  scenes  of  my  youth!  Oh,  all  ye  gleams 
of  love,  ye  divine  fleeting  gleams!  How  could  ye  perish 
so  soon  for  me!     I  think  of  you  to-day  as  my  dead  ones. 

From  you,  my  dearest  dead  ones,  cometh  unto  me  a 


122 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  II 


XXXIII— THE  GRAVE-SONG 


123 


sweet  savour,  heart-opening  and  melting.    Verily,  it  con- 
vulseth  and  openeth  the  heart  of  the  lone  seafarer. 

Still  am  I  the  richest  and  most  to  be  envied — I,  the 
lonesomest  one!  For  I  have  possessed  you,  and  ye  possess 
me  still.  Tell  me:  to  whom  hath  there  ever  fallen  such 
rosy  apples  from  the  tree  as  have  fallen  unto  me? 

Still  am  I  your  love's  heir  and  heritage,  blooming  to 
your  memory  with  many-hued,  wild-growing  virtues,  O  ye 
dearest  ones! 

Ah,  we  were  made  to  remain  nigh  unto  each  other,  ye 
kindly  strange  marvels;  and  not  like  timid  birds  did  ye 
come  to  me  and  my  longing — nay,  but  as  trusting  ones  to 
a  trusting  one! 

Yea,  made  for  faithfulness,  like  me,  and  for  fond  eterni- 
ties, must  I  now  name  you  by  your  faithlessness,  ye  divine 
glances  and  fleeting  gleams:  no  other  name  have  I  yet 
learnt. 

Verily,  too  early  did  ye  die  for  me,  ye  fugitives.  Yet 
did  ye  not  flee  from  me,  nor  did  I  flee  from  you:  innocent 
are  we  to  each  other  in  our  faithlessness. 

To  kill  mey  did  they  strangle  you,  ye  singing  birds  of  my 
hopes!  Yea,  at  you,  ye  dearest  ones,  did  malice  ever  shoot 
its  arrows — to  hit  my  heart! 

And  they  hit  it!  Because  ye  were  always  my  dearest, 
my  possession  and  my  possessedness:  on  that  account  had 
ye  to  die  young,  and  far  too  early! 

At  my  most  vulnerable  point  did  they  shoot  the  arrow — 
namely,  at  you,  whose  skin  is  like  down — or  more  like  the 
smile  that  dieth  at  a  glance! 

But  this  word  will  I  say  unto  mine  enemies:  What  is  all 
manslaughter  in  comparison  with  what  ye  have  done  unto 
me! 

Worse  evil  did  ye  do  unto  me  than  all  manslaughter;  the 
irretrievable  did  ye  take  from  me: — thus  do  I  speak  unto 
you,  mine  enemies! 

Slew  ye  not  my  youth's  visions  and  dearest  marvels!  My 
playmates  took  ye  from  me,  the  blessed  spirits!  To  their 
meiory  do  I  deposit  this  meath  and  this  curse. 

This  curse  upon  you,  mine  enemies!  Have  ye  not  made 
mine  eternal  short,  as  a  tone  dieth  away  in  a  cold  night! 


Scarcely,  as  the  twinkle  of  divine  eyes,  did  it  come  to  me— 
as  a  fleeting  gleam! 

Thus  spake  once  in  a  happy  hour  my  purity:  "Divine 
shall  everything  be  unto  me." 

Then  did  ye  haunt  me  with  foul  phantoms;  ah,  whither 
hath  that  happy  hour  now  fled! 

"All  days  shall  be  holy  unto  me"— so  spake  once  the 
wisdom  of  my  youth:  verily,  the  language  of  a  joyous 
wisdom! 

But  then  did  ye  enemies  steal  my  nights,  and  sold  them 
to  sleepless  torture:  ah,  whither  hath  that  joyous  wisdom 
now  fled? 

Once  did  I  long  for  happy  auspices:  then  did  ye  lead 
an  owl-monster  across  my  path,  an  adverse  sign.  Ah, 
whither  did  my  tender  longing  then  flee? 

All  loathing  did  I  once  vow  to  renounce:  then  did  ye 
change  my  nigh  ones  and  nearest  ones  into  ulcerations. 
Ah,  whither  did  my  noblest  vow  then  flee? 

As  a  blind  one  did  I  once  walk  in  blessed  ways:  then 
did  ye  cast  filth  on  the  blind  one's  course:  and  now  is 
he  disgusted  with  the  old  footpath. 

And  when  I  performed  my  hardest  task,  and  celebrated 
the  triumph  of  my  victories,  then  did  ye  make  those  who 
loved  me  call  out  that  I  then  grieved  them  most. 

Verily,  it  was  always  your  doing:  ye  embittered  to  me 
my  best  honey,  and  the  diligence  of  my  best  bees. 

To  my  charity  have  ye  ever  sent  the  most  impudent  beg- 
gars; around  my  sympathy  have  ye  ever  crowded  the 
incurably  shameless.  Thus  have  ye  wounded  the  faith  of 
my  virtue. 

And  when  I  offered  my  holiest  as  a  sacrifice,  immediately 
did  your  "piety"  put  its  fatter  gifts  beside  it:  so  that  my 
holiest  suffocated  in  the  fumes  of  your  fat. 

And  once  did  I  want  to  dance  as  I  had  never  yet  danced: 
beyond  all  heavens  did  I  want  to  dance.  Then  did  ye 
seduce  my  favourite  minstrel. 

And  now  hath  he  struck  up  an  awful,  melancholy  air; 
alas,  he  tooted  as  a  mournful  horn  to  mine  ear! 

Murderous  minstrel,  instrument  of  evil,  most  innocent 
instrument!     Already  did  I  stand  prepared  for  the  best 


124 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  II 


XXXIV— SELF-SURPASSING 


125 


dance:  then  didst  thou  slay  my  rapture  with  thy  tones! 

Only  in  the  dance  do  I  know  how  to  speak  the  parable 
of  the  highest  things: — and  now  hath  my  grandest  parable 
remained  unspoken  in  my  limbs  I 

Unspoken  and  unrealised  hath  my  highest  hope  re- 
mained! And  there  have  perished  for  me  all  the  visions 
and  consolations  of  my  youth! 

How  did  I  ever  bear  it?  How  did  I  survive  and  sur- 
mount such  wounds?  How  did  my  soul  rise  again  out  of 
those  sepulchres? 

Yea,  something  invulnerable,  unburiable  is  with  me, 
something  that  would  rend  rocks  asunder:  it  is  called  my 
Will,  Silently  doth  it  proceed,  and  unchanged  throughout 
the  years. 

Its  course  will  it  go  upon  my  feet,  mine  old  Will;  hard 
of  heart  is  its  nature  and  invulnerable. 

Invulnerable  am  I  only  in  my  heel.  Ever  livest  thou 
there,  and  art  like  thyself,  thou  most  patient  one!  Ever 
hast  thou  burst  all  shackles  of  the  tomb! 

In  thee  still  liveth  also  the  unrealisedness  of  my  youth; 
and  as  life  and  youth  sittest  thou  here  hopeful  on  the 
yellow  ruins  of  graves. 

Yea,  thou  art  still  for  me  the  demolisher  of  all  graves: 
Hail  to  thee,  my  Will!  And  only  where  there  are  graves 
are  there  resurrections. — 

Thus  sang  Zarathustra. 


XXXIV.— SELF-SURPASSING 

"Will  to  Truth"  do  ye  call  it,  ye  wisest  ones,  that  which 
impelleth  you  and  maketh  you  ardent? 

Will  for  the  thinkableness  of  all  being:  thus  do  /  call 
your  will! 

All  being  would  ye  make  thinkable:  for  ye  doubt  with 
good  reason  whether  it  be  already  thinkable. 

But  it  shall  accommodate  and  bend  itself  to  you!  So 
willeth  your  will.  Smooth  shall  it  become  and  subject  to 
the  spirit,  as  its  mirror  and  reflection. 


That  is  your  entire  will,  ye  wisest  ones,  as  a  Will  to 
Power;  and  even  when  ye  speak  of  good  and  evil,  and  of 
estimates  of  value. 

Ye  would  still  create  a  world  before  which  ye  can  bow 
the  knee:  such  is  your  ultimate  hope  and  ecstasy. 

The  ignorant,  to  be  sure,  the  people— they  are  like  a  river 
on  which  a  boat  floateth  along:  and  in  the  boat  sit  the 
estimates  of  value,  solemn  and  disguised. 

Your  will  and  your  valuations  have  ye  put  on  the  river  of 
becoming;  it  betrayeth  unto  me  an  old  Will  to  Power,  what 
is  believed  by  the  people  as  good  and  evil. 

It  was  ye,  ye  wisest  ones,  who  put  such  guests  in  this 
boat,  and  gave  them  pomp  and  proud  names — ^ye  and  your 
ruling  Will! 

Onward  the  river  now  carrieth  your  boat:  it  must  carry 
it.  A  small  matter  if  the  rough  wave  foameth  and  angrily 
resisteth  its  keel! 

It  is  not  the  river  that  is  your  danger  and  the  end  of 
your  good  and  evil,  ye  wisest  ones:  but  that  Will  itself,  the 
Will  to  Power— the  unexhausted,  procreating  life-will. 

But  that  ye  may  understand  my  gospel  of  good  and  evil, 
for  that  purpose  will  I  tell  you  my  gospel  of  life,  and  of 
the  nature  of  all  living  things. 

The  living  thing  did  I  follow;  I  walked  in  the  broadest 
and  narrowest  paths  to  learn  its  nature. 

With  a  hundred-faced  mirror  did  I  catch  its  glance  when 
its  mouth  was  shut,  so  that  its  eye  might  speak  unto  me. 
And  its  eye  spake  unto  me. 

But  wherever  I  found  living  things,  there  heard  I  also  the 
language  of  obedience.  All  living  things  are  obeying  things, 
^  And  this  heard  I  secondly:  Whatever  cannot  obey  itself, 
is  commanded.    Such  is  the  nature  of  living  things. 

This,  however,  is  the  third  thing  which  I  heard— namely, 
that  commanding  is  more  difficult  than  obeying.  And  not 
only  because  the  commander  beareth  the  burden  of  all 
obeyers,  and  because  this  burden  readily  crusheth  him: — 

An  attempt  and  a  risk  seemed  all  commanding  unto  me; 
and  whenever  it  commandeth,  the  living  thing  risketh  itself 
thereby. 

Yea,  even  when  it  commandeth  itself,  then  also  must  it 


s 


< 


n 


«I 


m 


ii 


Hi 


.! 


i^\ 


■-?  ' 


126 


?V; 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  II 


atone  for  its  commanding.  Of  its  own  law  must  it  become 
the  judge  and  avenger  and  victim. 

How  doth  this  happen!  so  did  I  ask  myself.  What  per- 
suadeth  the  living  thing  to  obey,  and  command,  and  even 
be  obedient  in  commanding? 

Hearken  now  unto  my  word,  ye  wisest  ones!  Test  it 
seriously,  whether  I  have  crept  into  the  heart  of  life  itself, 
and  into  the  roots  of  its  heart! 

Wherever  I  found  a  living  thing,  there  found  I  Will  to 
Power ;  and  even  in  the  will  of  the  servant  found  I  the  will 

to  be  master. 

That  to  the  stronger  the  weaker  shall  serve — thereto 
persuadeth  he  his  will  who  would  be  master  over  a  still 
weaker  one.    That  delight  alone  he  is  unwilling  to  forego. 

And  as  the  lesser  surrendereth  himself  to  the  greater  that 
he  may  have  delight  and  power  over  the  least  of  all,  so  doth 
even  the  greatest  surrender  himself,  and  staketh — ^life,  for 

the  sake  of  power. 

It  is  the  surrender  of  the  greatest  to  run  risk  and  danger, 

and  play  dice  for  death. 

And  where  there  is  sacrifice  and  service  and  love-glances, 
there  also  is  the  will  to  be  master.  By  by-ways  doth  the 
weaker  then  slink  into  the  fortress,  and  into  the  heart  of  the 
mightier  one — and  there  stealeth  power. 

And  this  secret  spake  Life  herself  unto  me.  "Behold," 
said  she,  "I  am  that  which  must  ever  surpass  itself. 

To  be  sure,  ye  call  it  will  to  procreation,  or  impulse  to- 
wards a  goal,  towards  the  higher,  remoter,  more  manifold: 
but  all  that  is  one  and  the  same  secret. 

Rather  would  I  succumb  than  disown  this  one  thing;  and 
verily,  where  there  is  succumbing  and  leaf-falling,  lo,  there 
doth  Life  sacrifice  itself — for  power! 

That  I  have  to  be  struggle,  and  becoming,  and  purpose, 
and  cross-purpose — ah,  he  who  divineth  my  will,  divineth 
well  also  on  what  crooked  paths  it  hath  to  tread! 

Whatever  I  create,  and  however  much  I  love  it, — soon 
must  I  be  adverse  to  it,  and  to  my  love:  so  willeth  my  will. 

And  even  thou,  discerning  one,  art  only  a  path  and  foot- 
step of  my  will :  verily,  my  Will  to  Power  walketh  even  on 
the  feet  of  thy  Will  to  Truth! 


XXXV- 


127 


He  certainly  did  not  hit  the  truth  who  shot  at  it  the 

Tnr  wh.?^'"  '^  '^''"'^^^'•*  '^^'  will-Kioth  not  exist! 

For  what  is  not,  cannot  will;  that,  however,  which  is  in 
existence-how  could  it  still  strive  for  existence! 
wAt'^^^'k  there  is  life,  is  there  also  will:  not,  however 
Will  to  Life,  but-so  teach  I  thee-Will  to  Power?  ' 

Much  IS  reckoned  higher  than  life  itself  by  the  living  one- 
wT"- '   ^^  "^^  ^^^^^i^g  speaketh-the  wl^^^^^^ 

Thus  did  Life  once  teach  me:  and  thereby,  ye  wisest  ones 
do  I  solve  you  the  riddle  of  your  hearts  ' 

Verily,  I  say  unto  you:  good  and  evil  which  would  be 
e^ S^STirant  '^^^^    ^^  ^^  <>-  -cord  Tst^t 

and  the  sparkling,  trembling,  and  overflowing  of  ySur  souk' 
But  a  stronger  power  groweth  out  of  your  valuS  S  a 

he  ha?h  fir^  .«  vf^  ?  \^  ^  "^''"''  '°  g°°d  «"d  evU-verily, 
tS.,^  5'!*?,,^^  ^  destroyer,  and  break  values  in  pieces. 
Thus  doth  the  greatest  evil  pertain  to  the  greatest  eood- 

that,  however,  is  the  creating  good.—  ^  ^       ' 

bad  ^Tn  ff»^''*,  ^.^'^°^'  y^  "^"^^  °»^'  «ve°  though  it  be 
IpotonoTis.  ''  "'°'""'  ^"  ^"PP^^s^d  truths  become 

\tnt^^,  ^et  everything  break  up  which-can  break  up  by  our 
|truths!    Many  a  house  is  still  to  be  built!—        "P''>'°"'^ 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


XXXV.— THE   SUBLIME  ONES 
ÄÄU  monS  "'  "^  "'^  "^°  "°"''  ^^^  ^^*  '' 

the^nS?"'^rPv°V^'^  ^  ^°-^^y'  *  '°'^'""  o°e,  a  penitent  of 
the  spirit:    Oh,  how  my  soul  laughed  at  his  uglinessl 


126    ^  ^^  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  II 

atone  for  its  commanding.  Of  its  own  law  must  it  become 
the  judge  and  avenger  and  victim. 

How  doth  this  happen!  so  did  I  ask  myself.  What  per- 
suadeth  the  living  thing  to  obey,  and  command,  and  even 
be  obedient  in  commanding? 

Hearken  now  unto  my  word,  ye  wisest  ones!  Test  it 
seriously,  whether  I  have  crept  mto  the  heart  of  life  itself, 
and  into  the  roots  of  its  heart! 

Wherever  I  found  a  living  thing,  there  found  I  Will  to 
Power;  and  even  in  the  will  of  the  servant  found  I  the  will 

to  be  master. 

That  to  the  stronger  the  weaker  shall  serve— thereto 
persuadeth  he  his  will  who  would  be  master  over  a  still 
weaker  one.    That  delight  alone  he  is  unwilling  to  forego. 

And  as  the  lesser  surrendereth  himself  to  the  greater  that 
he  may  have  delight  and  power  over  the  least  of  all,  so  doth 
even  the  greatest  surrender  himself,  and  staketh— life,  for 
the  sake  of  power. 

It  is  the  surrender  of  the  greatest  to  run  risk  and  danger, 

and  play  dice  for  death. 

And  where  there  is  sacrifice  and  service  and  love-glances, 
there  also  is  the  will  to  be  master.  By  by-ways  doth  the 
weaker  then  slink  into  the  fortress,  and  into  the  heart  of  the 
mightier  one — and  there  stealeth  power. 

And  this  secret  spake  Life  herself  unto  me.  "Behold," 
said  she,  "I  am  that  which  must  ever  surpass  itself. 

To  be  sure,  ye  call  it  will  to  procreation,  or  impulse  to- 
wards a  goal,  towards  the  higher,  remoter,  more  manifold: 
but  all  that  is  one  and  the  same  secret. 

Rather  would  I  succumb  than  disown  this  one  thing;  and 
verily,  where  there  is  succumbing  and  leaf-falling,  lo,  there 
doth  Life  sacrifice  itself — for  power! 

That  I  have  to  be  struggle,  and  becoming,  and  purpose, 
and  cross-purpose— ah,  he  who  divineth  my  will,  divineth 
well  also  on  what  crooked  paths  it  hath  to  tread! 

Whatever  I  create,  and  however  much  I  love  it,— soon 
must  I  be  adverse  to  it,  and  to  my  love:  so  willeth  my  will. 

And  even  thou,  discerning  one,  art  only  a  path  and  foot- 
step of  my  will:  verily,  my  Will  to  Power  walketh  even  on 
the  feet  of  thy  Will  to  Truth! 


XXXV- 


127 


^0°  y,^?«^«  there  is  life,  is  there  also  wUl   S  however 
Will  to  Life,  but-so  teach  I  thee-WiU  to  Power  1  ' 

buf^nu^t  ''Ä°^  ^'^^''  *^^"  «f«  itself  by  Sving  one- 
Wr-'  """  ^''y  '''^'"^"S  speaketh-the  win  ?o 

Thus  did  Life  once  teach  me:  and  thereby,  ye  wisest  one^ 
do  I  solve  you  the  riddle  of  your  hearts.  ^' 

eve'^SSiigi^doTnorexis^r ont""  "'^^^  T"'^  «^^ 
ever  surpfss  itself  anm.  '""  °^  ''*=°'"^  "^^^  ^^ 

With  your  values  and  formulje  of  good  and  evil  ve  «»y^r 
eise  power,  ye  valuing  ones:  and  thit  is  your  secret  love" 

L??S'*^'°^'  *'"''"^''°^'  ^°d  overflowing  of  your  souk' 
But  a  stronger  power  groweth  out  of  your  valued  «nH. 

4  '^T'T^'-  ^y  ''  br^^l^^th  egg  and  eSdl 

het'Ä'to  hf  ?  "T  '  "^'^''^  goofand  ek-verily, 
Thut  5  i  ?u^  ^  destroyer,  and  break  values  in  pieces 

thÄrr,t  tr^ti^^^^^^^^ '-  ^^  ^--  ^-^: 

bad  *  Tn  ff/''^,  ^^'^°^'  y^  ^'^t  ones,  even  though  it  be 
poi-sono^s.      ''''"'  ^'  "°'^''  ^"  ^"PP^^^^d  truths'befor^ 

trulhs'^f  ^«J5verything  break  up  which-can  break  up  by  our 
truths!    Many  a  house  is  still  to  be  built!—        "P^your 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 

XXXV.— THE   SUBLIME  ONES 
ÄrÄnS  °'  "^  ""  "^°  "°"^'  ^^  ^'  Jt 

the^S™  n^vl'V^'^  '  ^''-'^7'  ^  ^«^«""^  one»  a  penitent  of 
«e  spint.    Oh,  how  my  soul  laughed  at  his  ugliness! 


128 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  II 


m 


I     . 


With  upraised  breast,  and  like  those  who  draw  in  their 
breath:  thus  did  he  stand,  the  sublime  one,  and  in  silence: 

O'erhung  with  ugly  truths,  the  spoil  of  his  hunting,  and 
rich  in  torn  raiment;  many  thorns  also  hung  on  him— but  I 

saw  no  rose. 

Not  yet  had  he  learned  laughing  and  beauty.  Gloomy 
did  this  hunter  return  from  the  forest  of  knowledge. 

From  the  fight  with  wild  beasts  returned  he  home:  but 
even  yet  a  wild  beast  gazeth  out  of  his  seriousness— an  un- 

conquered  wild  beast  1 

As  a  tiger  doth  he  ever  stand,  on  the  point  of  springing; 
but  I  do  not  like  those  strained  souls;  ungracious  is  my 
taste  towards  all  those  self-engrossed  ones. 

And  ye  tell  me,  friends,  that  there  is  to  be  no  dispute 
about  taste  and  tasting?  But  all  life  is  a  dispute  about 
taste  and  tasting  1 

Taste:  that  is  weight  at  the  same  time,  and  scales  and 
weigher;  and  alas  for  every  living  thing  that  would  live  with- 
out dispute  about  weight  and  scales  and  weigher! 

Should  he  become  weary  of  his  sublimeness,  this  sublime 
one,  then  only  will  his  beauty  begin— and  then  only  will  I 
taste  him  and  find  him  savoury. 

And  only  when  he  turneth  away  from  himself  will  he 
overleap  his  own  shadow — and  verily  1  into  his  sun. 

Far  too  long  did  he  sit  in  the  shade,  the  cheeks  of  the 
penitent  of  the  spirit  became  pale;  he  almost  starved  on  his 

expectations.  . 

Contempt  is  still  in  his  eye,  and  loathing  hideth  in  his 
mouth.  To  be  sure,  he  now  resteth,  but  he  hath  not  yet 
taken  rest  in  the  sunshine.  ,     u       ii 

As  the  ox  ought  he  to  do;  and  his  happiness  should  smell 
of  the  earth,  and  not  of  contempt  for  the  earth. 

As  a  white  ox  would  I  like  to  see  him,  which,  snorting 
and  lowing,  walketh  before  the  plough-share:  and  his  lowing 
should  also  laud  all  that  is  earthly! 

Dark  is  still  his  countenance;  the  shadow  of  his  hand 
danceth  upon  it.     Overshadowed  is  still  the  sense  of  his 

His  deed  itself  is  still  the  shadow  upon  him:  his  doing 
obscureth  the  doer.    Not  yet  hath  he  overcome  his  deed. 


XXXV— THE  SUBLIME  ONES  129 

To  be  sure,  I  love  in  him  the  shoulders  of  the  ox-  but 
now  do  I  want  to  see  also  the  eye  of  the  angel 

Also  his  hero-will  hath  he  still  to  unlearn:  an  exalted  one 
shall  he  be,  and  not  only  a  sublime  one:— the  ether  itself 
should  raise  him,  the  will-less  one! 

He  hath  subdued  monsters,  he  hath  solved  enigmas.  But 
he  should  also  redeem  his  monsters  and  enigmas;  into 
heavenly  children  should  he  transform  them 

As  yet  hath  his  knowledge  not  learned  to  smile,  and  to  be 
without  jeaousy;  as  yet  hath  his  gushing  passion  not  be- 
come  calm  m  beauty. 

pear,  but  in  beauty!     Gracefulness  belongeth  to  the  munifi- 
cence  of  the  magnanimous. 

ih^L^'^A  f '""f  ^''  ^^^^'  ^^"^  ^^^"Jd  the  hero  repose: 
thus  should  he  also  surmount  his  repose 

But  precisely  to  the  hero  is  beauty  ihe  hardest  thing  of 
all.    Unattainable  is  beauty  by  all  ardent  wills 

A  httle  more,  a  little  less:  precisely  this  is  much  here,  it 
is  the  most  here.  ' 

To  stand  with  relaxed  muscles  and  with  unharnessed  will: 
that  IS  the  hardest  for  all  of  you,  ye  sublime  ones! 

vkihf-!^  T^T  ^l^^^^th  gracious  and  descendeth  into  the 
visiblfr— I  call  such  condescension,  beauty. 

thnn  1  ^"'"'".T  ''''^  ^?  ^  Y^''^  ^^^"^y  ^^  ^"^h  as  from  thee, 
quest.  ''''^'         ^^  ^'''''^''^'^  ^^  ^^y  ^^^^  ^^^^-^'>''' 

th^lo7d   ^"^  ^  ^''''''^^'^  ^^  ^^^^-  therefore  do  I  desire  of  thee 

Verily,  I  have  often  laughed  at  the  weaklings,  who  think 
themselves  good  because  they  have  crippled  pa^s! 

infPrnfn      u    /^  ^""^1  ^^"""^^^  ^^^  ^^^^  graceful-but 
S  "^""'^    sustaining-the    higher    it 

fni^^^li^l!^"^^"^''!"^  ^"^^^  ^^^  ^^y  s^a't  thou  also  be  beauti- 
IUI  and  hold  up  the  mirror  to  thine  own  beauty. 

whTk      T'"  ?y  ''''''  ^.^""  ^^*  ^^'""^  d^J^^;  and  there 
Will  be  adoration  even  in  thy  vanity! 

For  this  is  the  secret  of  the  soul:  when  the  hero  hath 


] 


13° 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  II 


XXXVI— THE  LAND  OF  CULTURE 


131 


'H 


abandoned  it,  then  only  approacheth  it  in  dreams — the 
superhero. — 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


XXXVI.— THE  LAND  OF  CULTURE 

Too  far  did  I  fly  into  the  future:  a  horror  seized  upon  me. 

And  when  I  looked  around  me,  lo!  there  time  was  my 
sole  contemporary. 

Then  did  I  fly  backwards,  homewards — and  always  faster. 
Thus  did  I  come  unto  you.  ye  present-day  men,  and  into 
the  land  of  culture. 

For  the  first  time  brought  I  an  eye  to  see  you,  and  good 
desire:  verily,  with  longing  in  my  heart  did  I  come. 

But  how  did  it  turn  out  with  me?  Although  so  alarmed 
— ^I  had  yet  to  laugh!  Never  did  mine  eye  see  anything  so 
motley-coloured ! 

I  laughed  and  laughed,  while  my  foot  still  trembled,  and 
my  heart  as  well.  "Here  forsooth,  is  the  home  of  all  the 
paintpots," — said  I. 

With  fifty  patches  painted  on  faces  and  limbs — ^so  sat  ye 
there  to  mine  astonishment,  ye  present-day  men! 

And  with  fifty  mirrors  around  you,  which  flattered  your 
play  of  colours,  and  repeated  it! 

Verily,  ye  could  wear  no  better  masks,  ye  present-day 
men,  than  your  own  faces!     Who  could — recognise  you! 

Written  all  over  with  the  characters  of  the  past,  and 
these  characters  also  pencilled  over  with  new  characters — 
thus  have  ye  concealed  yourselves  well  from  all  decipherers! 

And  though  one  be  a  trier  of  the  reins,  who  still  believeth 
that  ye  have  reins!  Out  of  colours  ye  seem  to  be  baked, 
and  out  of  glued  scraps. 

All  times  and  peoples  gaze  divers-coloured  out  of  your 
veils;  all  customs  and  beliefs  speak  divers-coloured  out  of 
your  gestures. 

He  who  would  strip  you  of  veils  and  wrappers,  and 
paints  and  gestures,  would  just  have  enough  left  to  scare 
the  crows. 


Verily,  I  myself  am  the  scared  crow  that  once  saw  you 
naked,  and  without  paint;  and  I  flew  away  when  the 
skeleton  ogled  at  me. 

Rather  would  I  be  a  day-labourer  in  the  nether-world, 
and  among  the  shades  of  the  by-gone!— Fatter  and  fuller 
than  ye,  are  forsooth  the  nether- worldlings ! 

This,  yea  this,  is  bitterness  to  my  bowels,  that  I  can 
neither  endure  you  naked  nor  clothed,  ye  present-day  men! 

All  that  is  unhomelike  in  the  future,  and  whatever  maketh 
strayed  birds  shiver,  is  verily  more  homelike  and  familiar 
than  your  "reality." 

For  thus  speak  ye:  "Real  are  we  wholly,  and  without 
faith  and  superstition":  thus  do  ye  plume  yourselves — ^alas! 
even  without  plumes! 

Indeed,  how  would  ye  be  able  to  believe,  ye  divers-col- 
oured ones! — ^ye  who  are  pictures  of  all  that  hath  ever  been 
believed ! 

Perambulating  refutations  are  ye,  of  belief  itself,  and  a 
dislocation  of  all  thought.  Untrustworthy  ones:  thus  do  / 
call  you,  ye  real  ones ! 

All  periods  prate  against  one  another  in  your  spirits ;  and 
the  dreams  and  pratings  of  all  periods  were  even  realer  than 
your  awakeness! 

Unfruitful  are  ye:  therefore  do  ye  lack  belief.  But  he 
who  had  to  create,  had  always  his  presaging  dreams  and 
astral  premonitions — and  believed  in  believing! — 

Half-open  doors  are  ye,  at  which  grave-diggers  wait. 
And  this  is  your  reality:    "Everything  deserveth  to  perish." 

Alas,  how  ye  stand  there  before  me,  ye  unfruitful  ones; 
how  lean  your  ribs!  And  many  of  you  surely  have  had 
knowledge  thereof. 

Many  a  one  hath  said:  "There  hath  surely  a  God  filched 
something  from  me  secretly  whilst  I  slept?  Verily,  enough 
to  make  a  girl  for  himself  therefrom! 

"Amazing  is  the  poverty  of  my  ribs!"  thus  hath  spoken 
many  a  present-day  man. 

Yea,  ye  are  laughable  unto  me,  ye  present-day  men!, 
And  especially  when  ye  marvel  at  yourselves! 

And  woe  unto  me  if  I  could  not  laugh  at  your  marvelling, 
and  had  to  swallow  all  that  is  repugnant  in  your  platters! 


'I 


132 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  II 


Mil 


KH 


! 

M 


As  it  is,  however,  I  will  make  lighter  of  you,  since  I  have 
to  carry  what  is  heavy;  and  what  matter  if  beetles  and 
May-bugs  also  alight  on  my  load! 

Verily,  it  shall  not  on  that  account  become  heavier  to 
me!  And  not  from  you,  ye  present-day  men,  shall  my  great 
weariness  arise. — 

Ah,  whither  shall  I  now  ascend  with  my  longing!  From 
all  mountains  do  I  look  out  for  fatherlands  and  mother- 
lands. 

But  a  home  have  I  found  nowhere:  unsettled  am  I  in  all 
cities,  and  decamping  at  all  gates. 

Alien  to  me,  and  a  mockery,  are  the  present-day  men,  to 
whom  of  late  my  heart  impelled  me;  and  exiled  am  I  from 
fatherlands  and  motherlands. 

Thus  do  I  love  only  my  children's  land,  the  undiscovered 
in  the  remotest  sea:  for  it  do  I  bid  my  sails  search  and 
search. 

Unto  my  children  will  I  make  amends  for  being  the  child 
of  my  fathers:  and  unto  all  the  future — for  this  present- 
day! — 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


XXXVII.— IMMACULATE   PERCEPTION 

When  yester-eve  the  moon  arose,  then  did  I  fancy  it 
about  to  bear  a  sun:  so  broad  and  teeming  did  it  lie  on  the 
horizon. 

But  it  was  a  liar  with  its  pregnancy;  and  sooner  will  I 
believe  in  the  man  in  the  moon  than  in  the  woman. 

To  be  sure,  little  of  a  man  is  he  also,  that  timid  night- 
reveller.  Verily,  with  a  bad  conscience  doth  he  stalk  over 
the  roofs. 

For  he  is  covetous  and  jealous,  the  monk  in  the  moon; 
covetous  of  the  earth,  and  all  the  joys  of  lovers. 

Nay,  I  like  him  not,  that  tom-cat  on  the  roofs!  Hateful 
unto  me  are  all  that  slink  around  half-closed  windows! 

Piously  and  silently  doth  he  stalk  along  on  the  star- 


XXXVII— IMMACULATE  PERCEPTION        133 

carpets:— but  I  like  no  light-treading  human  feet,  on  which 
not  even  a  spur  jingleth. 

Every  honest  one's  step  speaketh;  the  cat  however,  steal- 
eth  along  over  the  ground.  Lo!  cat-like  doth  the  moon 
come  along,  and  dishonestly. — 

This  parable  speak  I  unto  you  sentimental  dissemblers, 
unto  you,  the  "pure  discerners!"  You  do  /  call — covetous 
ones! 

Also  ye  love  the  earth,  and  the  earthly:  I  have  divined 
you  well! — but  shame  is  in  your  love,  and  a  bad  conscience 
— ^ye  are  like  the  moon! 

To  despise  the  earthly  hath  your  spirit  been  persuaded, 
but  not  your  bowels:  these,  however,  are  the  strongest  in 
you! 

And  now  is  your  spirit  ashamed  to  be  at  the  service  of 
your  bowels,  and  goeth  by-ways  and  lying  ways  to  escape  its 
own  shame. 

"That  would  be  the  highest  thing  for  me" — so  saith  your 
lying  spirit  unto  itself — ^"^to  gaze  upon  life  without  desire, 
and  not  like  the  dog,  with  hanging-out  tongue: 

To  be  happy  in  gazing:  with  dead  will,  free  from  the 
grip  and  greed  of  selfishness — cold  and  ashy-grey  all  over, 
but  with  intoxicated  moon-eyes! 

That  would  be  the  dearest  thing  to  me" — thus  doth  the 
seduced  one  seduce  himself, — "to  love  the  earth  as  the  moon 
loveth  it,  and  with  the  eye  only  to  feel  its  beauty. 

And  this  do  I  call  immaculate  perception  of  all  things:  to 
want  nothing  else  from  them,  but  to  be  allowed  to  lie  be- 
fore them  as  a  mirror  with  a  hundred  facets." — 

Oh,  ye  sentimental  dissemblers,  ye  covetous  ones!  Ye 
lack  innocence  in  your  desire:  and  now  do  ye  defame  de- 
siring on  that  account! 

Verily,  not  as  creators,  as  procreators,  or  as  jubilators 
do  ye  love  the  earth! 

Where  is  innocence?  Where  there  is  will  to  procreation. 
And  he  who  seeketh  to  create  beyond  himself,  hath  for  me 
the  purest  will. 

Where  is  beauty?  Where  I  must  will  with  my  whole 
Will;  where  I  will  love  and  perish,  that  an  image  may  not 
remain  merely  an  image. 


134 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  II 


XXXVIII— SCHOLARS 


135 


^:'f. 


Loving  and  perishing:  these  have  rhymed  from  eternity. 
Will  to  love:  that  is  to  be  ready  also  for  death.  Thus  do 
I  speak  unto  you  cowards! 

But  now  doth  your  emasculated  ogling  profess  to  be 
"contemplation!"  And  that  which  can  be  examined  with 
cowardly  eyes  is  to  be  christened  "beautiful!"  Oh,  ye 
violators  of  noble  names! 

But  it  shall  be  your  curse,  ye  immaculate  ones,  ye  pure 
discerners,  that  ye  shall  never  bring  forth,  even  though  ye 
lie  broad  and  teeming  on  the  horizon! 

Verily,  ye  fill  your  mouth  with  noble  words:  and  we  are 
to  believe  that  your  heart  overfloweth,  ye  cozeners? 

But  my  words  are  poor,  contemptible,  stammering  words:' 
gladly  do  I  pick  up  what  falleth  from  the  table  at  your 
repasts. 

Yet  still  can  I  say  therewith  the  truth — to  dissemblers! 
Yea,  my  fish-bones,  shells,  and  prickly  leaves  shall — tickle 
the  noses  of  dissemblers! 

Bad  air  is  always  about  you  and  your  repasts:  your 
lascivious  thoughts,  your  lies,  and  secrets  are  indeed  in 
the  air! 

Dare  only  to  believe  in  yourselves — in  yourselves  and  in 
your  inward  parts!  He  who  doth  not  believe  in  himself 
always  lieth. 

A  God's  mask  have  ye  hung  in  front  of  you,  ye  "pure 
ones":  into  a  God's  mask  hath  your  execrable  coiling  snake 
crawled. 

Verily  ye  deceive,  ye  "contemplative  ones!"  Even  Zara- 
thustra  was  once  the  dupe  of  your  godlike  exterior;  he 
did  not  divine  the  serpent's  coil  with  which  it  was 
stuffed. 

A  God's  soul,  I  once  thought  I  saw  playing  in  your 
games,  ye  pure  discerners!  No  better  arts  did  I  once 
dream  of  than  your  arts! 

Serpents'  filth  and  evil  odour,  the  distance  concealed 
from  me:  and  that  a  lizard's  craft  prowled  thereabouts 
lasciviously. 

But  I  came  nigh  unto  you:  then  came  to  me  the  day, — 
and  now  cometh  it  to  you, — at  an  end  is  the  moon's  love 
affair ! 


See  there!  Surprised  and  pale  doth  it  stand — before  the 
rosy  dawn! 

For  already  she  cometh,  the  glowing  one, — her  love  to 
the  earth  cometh!  Innocence  and  creative  desire,  is  all 
solar  love! 

See  there,  how  she  cometh  impatiently  over  the  seal  Do 
ye  not  feel  the  thirst  and  the  hot  breath  of  her  love? 

At  the  sea  would  she  suck,  and  drink  its  depths  to  her 
height:  now  riseth  the  desire  of  the  sea  with  its  thousand 
breasts. 

Kissed  and  sucked  would  it  be  by  the  thirst  of  the  sun; 
vapour  wotdd  it  become,  and  height,  and  path  of  light,  and 
light  itself! 

Verily,  like  the  sun  do  I  love  life,  and  all  deep  seas. 

And  this  meaneth  to  me  knowledge:  all  that  is  deep  shall 
ascend — to  my  height! — 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


XXXVIII.— SCHOLARS 

When  I  lay  asleep,  then  did  a  sheep  eat  at  the  ivy-wreath 
on  my  head, — it  ate,  and  said  thereby:  "Zarathustra  is 
no  longer  a  scholar." 

It  said  this,  and  went  away  clumsily  and  proudly.  A 
child  told  it  to  me. 

I  like  to  lie  here  where  the  children  play,  beside  the 
ruined  wall,  among  thistles  and  red  poppies. 

A  scholar  am  I  still  to  the  children,  and  also  to  the 
thistles  and  red  poppies.  Innocent  are  they,  even  in  their 
wickedness. 

But  to  the  sheep  I  am  no  longer  a  scholar:  so  willeth  my 
lot — ^blessings  upon  it! 

For  this  is  the  truth:  I  have  departed  from  the  house  of 
the  scholars,  and  the  door  have  I  also  slammed  behind  me. 

Too  long  did  my  soul  sit  hungry  at  their  table:  not  like 
them  have  I  got  the  knack  of  investigating,  as  the  knack 
of  nut-cracking. 


/ ' 


3  Uli' 


136  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  II 

Freedom  do  I  love,  and  the  air  over  fresh  soil;  rather 
would  I  sleep  on  ox-skins  than  on  their  honours  and  dig- 
nities. 

I  am  too  hot  and  scorched  with  mine  own  thought:  often 
is  it  ready  to  take  away  my  breath.  Then  have  I  to  go 
into  the  open  air,  and  away  from  all  dusty  rooms. 

But  they  sit  cool  in  the  cool  shade:  they  want  in  every- 
thing to  be  merely  spectators,  and  they  avoid  sitting  where 
the  sun  burneth  on  the  steps. 

Like  those  who  stand  in  the  street  and  gape  at  the 
passers-by:  thus  do  they  also  wait,  and  gape  at  the  thoughts 
which  others  have  thought. 

^  Should  one  lay  hold  of  them,  then  do  they  raise  a  dust 
like  flour-sacks,  and  involuntarily:  but  who  would  divine 
that  their  dust  came  from  corn,  and  from  the  yellow  delight 
of  the  summer  fields? 

When  they  give  themselves  out  as  wise,  then  do  their 
petty  sayings  and  truths  chill  me:  in  their  wisdom  there  is 
often  an  odour  as  if  it  came  from  the  swamp;  and  verily, 
I  have  even  heard  the  frog  croak  in  it! 

Clever  are  they— they  have  dexterous  fingers:  what  doth 
my  simplicity  pretend  to  beside  their  multiplicity!  All 
threading  and  knitting  and  weaving  do  their  fingers  under- 
stand: thus  do  they  make  the  hose  of  the  spirit! 

Good  clockworks  are  they:  only  be  careful  to  wind  them 
up  properly!  Then  do  they  indicate  the  hour  without  mis- 
take, and  make  a  modest  noise  thereby. 

Like  millstones  do  they  work,  and  like  pestles:  throw  only 
seed-corn  unto  them!— they  know  well  how  to  grind  corn 
small,  and  make  white  dust  out  of  it. 

They  keep  a  sharp  eye  on  one  another,  and  do  not  trust 
each  other  the  best.    Ingenious  in  little  artifices,  they  wait 

for   those  whose   knowledge  walketh  on  lame  feet like 

spiders  do  they  wait.  ' 

I  saw  them  always  prepare  their  poison  with  precaution ; 
and  always  did  they  put  glass  gloves  on  their  fingers  in 
doing  so. 

They  also  know  how  to  play  with  false  dice;  and  so 

eagerly  did  I  find  them  playing,  that  they  perspired  thereby. 

We  are  alien  to  each  other,  and  their  virtues  are  even 


XXXIX— POETS 


m 


more  repugnant  to  my  taste  than  their  falsehoods  and  false 
dice. 

And  when  I  lived  with  them,  then  did  I  live  above  them. 
Therefore  did  they  take  a  dislike  to  me. 

They  want  to  hear  nothing  of  any  one  walking  above 
their  heads;  and  so  they  put  wood  and  earth  and  rubbish 
betwixt  me  and  their  heads. 

Thus  did  they  deafen  the  sound  of  my  tread:  and  least 
have  I  hitherto  been  heard  by  the  most  learned. 

All  mankind's  faults  and  weaknesses  did  they  put  be- 
twixt themselves  and  me:— they  call  it  "false  ceiling"  in 
their  houses. 

But  nevertheless  I  walk  with  my  thoughts  above  their 
heads;  and  even  should  I  walk  on  mine  own  errors,  still 
would  I  be  above  them  and  their  heads. 

For  men  are  not  equal:  so  speaketh  justice.  And  what  I 
will,  they  may  not  will! 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


XXXIX.— POETS 

"Since  I  have  known  the  body  better"— said  Zarathustra 
to  one  of  his  disciples — ^"'the  spirit  hath  only  been  to  me 
symbolically  spirit;  and  all  the  'imperishable'— that  is  also 
but  a  simile." 

"So  have  I  heard  thee  say  once  before,"  answered  the 
disciple,  "and  then  thou  addedst:  'But  the  poets  lie  too 
much.'    Why  didst  thou  say  that  the  poets  lie  too  much?" 

"Why?"  said  Zarathustra.  "Thou  askest  why?  I  do 
not  belong  to  those  who  may  be  asked  after  their  Why. 

Is  my  experience  but  of  yesterday?  It  is  long  ago  that 
I  experienced  the  reasons  for  mine  opinions. 

Should  I  not  have  to  be  a  cask  of  memory,  if  I  also 
wanted  to  have  my  reasons  with  me? 

It  is  already  too  much  for  me  even  to  retain  mine  opin- 
ions; and  many  a  bird  flieth  away. 

And  sometimes,  also,  do  I  find  a  fugitive  creature  in  my 


138 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  II 


XXXIX— POETS 


139 


dovecote,  which  is  alien  to  me,  and  trembleth  when  I  lay  my 
hand  upon  it. 

But  what  did  Zarathustra  once  say  unto  thee?  That  the 
poets  lie  too  much? — But  Zarathustra  also  is  a  poet. 

Believest  thou  that  he  there  spake  the  truth?  Why  dost 
thou  believe  it?" 

The  disciple  answered:  "I  believe  in  Zarathustra."  But 
Zarathustra  shook  his  head  and  smiled. — 

Belief  doth  not  sanctify  me,  said  he,  least  of  all  the  be- 
lief in  myself. 

But  granting  that  some  one  did  say  in  all  seriousness  that 
the  poets  lie  too  much:  he  was  right — we  do  lie  too  much. 

We  also  know  too  little,  and  are  bad  learners:  so  we  are 
obliged  to  lie. 

And  which  of  us  poets  hath  not  adulterated  his  wine? 
Many  a  poisonous  hotchpotch  hath  evolved  in  our  cellars: 
many  an  indescribable  thing  hath  there  been  done. 

And  because  we  know  little,  therefore  are  we  pleased 
from  the  heart  with  the  poor  in  spirit,  especially  when  they 
are  young  women! 

And  even  of  those  things  are  we  desirous,  which  old 
women  tell  one  another  in  the  evening.  This  do  we  call  the 
eternally  feminine  in  us. 

And  as  if  there  were  a  special  secret  access  to  knowledge, 
which  choketh  up  for  those  who  learn  anything,  so  do  we 
,  believe  in  the  people  and  in  their  "wisdom." 
\\  This,  however,  do  all  poets  believe:  that  whoever  pricketh 
up  his  ears  when  lying  in  the  grass  or  on  lonely  slopes, 
learneth  something  of  the  things  that  are  betwixt  heaven 
and  earth. 

And  if  there  come  unto  them  tender  emotions,  then  do 
the  poets  always  think  that  nature  herself  is  in  love  with 
them: 

And  that  she  stealeth  to  their  ear  to  whisper  secrets  into 
it,  and  amorous  flatteries:  of  this  do  they  plume  and  pride 
themselves,  before  all  mortals! 

Ah,  there  are  so  many  things  betwixt  heaven  and  earth 
of  which  only  the  poets  have  dreamed! 

And  especially  above  the  heavens:  for  all  Gods  are  poet- 
symbolisations,  poet-sophistications ! 


Verily,  ever  are  we  drawn  aloft — that  is,  to  the  realm  of 
the  clouds:  on  these  do  we  set  our  gaudy  puppets,  and 
then  call  them  Gods  and  Supermen: — 

Are  not  they  light  enough  for  those  chairs! — all  these 
Gods  and  Supermen? — 

Ah,  how  I  am  weary  of  all  the  inadequate  that  is  insisted 
on  as  actual !    Ah,  how  I  am  weary  of  the  poets ! 

When  Zarathustra  so  spake,  his  disciple  resented  it,  but 
was  silent.  And  Zarathustra  also  was  silent;  and  his  eye 
directed  itself  inwardly,  as  if  it  gazed  into  the  far  distance. 
At  last  he  sighed  and  drew  breath. —  • 

I  am  of  to-day  and  heretofore,  said  he  thereupon;  but 
something  is  in  me  that  is  of  the  morrow,  and  the  day 
following,  and  the  hereafter. 

I  became  weary  of  the  poets,  of  the  old  and  of  the  new: 
superficial  are  they  all  unto  me,  and  shallow  seas. 

They  did  not  think  sufficiently  into  the  depth;  therefore 
their  feeling  did  not  reach  to  the  bottom. 

Some  sensation  of  voluptuousness  and  some  sensation  of 
tedium:  these  have  as  yet  been  their  best  contemplation. 

Ghost-breathing  and  ghost-whisking,  seemeth  to  me  all 
the  jingle-jangling  of  their  harps;  what  have  they  known 
hitherto  of  the  fervour  of  tones! — 

They  are  also  not  pure  enough  for  me:  they  all  muddle 
their  water  that  it  may  seem  deep. 

And  fain  would  they  thereby  prove  themselves  recon- 
cilers: but  medianes  and  mixers  are  they  unto  me,  and 
half-and-half,  and  impure! — 

Ah,  I  cast  indeed  my  net  into  their  sea,  and^meant  to 
catch  good  fish;  but  always  did  I  draw  up  the  head  of 
some  ancient  God. 

Thus  did  the  sea  give  a  stone  to  the  hungry  one.  And 
they  themselves  may  well  originate  from  the  sea. 

Certainly,  one  findeth  pearls  in  them:  thereby  they  are 
the  more  like  hard  molluscs.  And  instead  of  a  soul,  I  have 
often  found  in  them  salt  slime. 

They  have  learned  from  the  sea  also  its  vanity:  is  not  the 
sea  the  peacock  of  peacocks? 

Even  before  the  ugliest  of  all  buffaloes  doth  it  spread  out 


I 


140 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  II 


XL— GREAT  EVENTS 


141 


it 


its  tail;  never  doth  it  tire  of  its  lace-fan  of  silver  and  silk. 

Disdainfully  doth  the  buffalo  glance  thereat,  nigh  to  the 
sand  with  its  soul,  nigher  still  to  the  thicket,  nighest,  how- 
ever, to  the  swamp. 

What  is  beauty  and  sea  and  peacock-splendour  to  it! 
This  parable  I  speak  unto  the  poets. 

Verily,  their  spirit  itself  is  the  peacock  of  peacocks,  and 
a  sea  of  vanity  I 

Spectators,  seeketh  the  spirit  of  the  poet — should  they 
even  be  buffaloes! — 

But  of  this  spirit  became  I  weary;  and  I  see  the  time 
coming  when  it  will  become  weary  of  itself. 

Yea,  changed  have  I  seen  the  poets,  and  their  glance 
turned  towards  themselves. 

Penitents  of  the  spirit  have  I  seen  appearing;  they  grew 
out  of  the  poets. — 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


XL.— GREAT  EVENTS 

There  is  an  isle  in  the  sea — not  far  from  the  Happy  Isle? 
of  Zarathustra — on  which  a  volcano  ever  smoketh;  of  which 
isle  the  people,  and  especially  the  old  women  amongst 
them,  say  that  it  is  placed  as  a  rock  before  the  gate  of  the 
nether-world ;  but  that  through  the  volcano  itself  the  narrow 
way  leadeth  downwards  which  conducteth  to  this  gate. 

Now  about  the  time  that  Zarathustra  sojourned  on  the 
Happy  Isles,  it  happened  that  a  ship  anchored  at  the  isle 
on  which  standeth  the  smoking  mountain,  and  the  crew 
went  ashore  to  shoot  rabbits.  About  the  noontide  hour, 
however,  when  the  captain  and  his  men  were  together  again, 
they  saw  suddenly  a  man  coming  towards  them  through  the 
air,  and  a  voice  said  distinctly:  "It  is  time!  It  is  the 
highest  time!''  But  when  the  figure  was  nearest  to  them 
(it  flew  past  quickly,  however,  like  a  shadow,  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  volcano),  then  did  they  recognise  with  the  great- 
est surprise  that  it  was  Zarathustra;  for  they  had  all  seen 


him  before  except  the  captain  himself,  and  they  loved  him 
as  the  people  love:  in  such  wise  that  love  and  awe  were 
combined  in  equal  degree. 

"Behold!"  said  the  old  helmsman,  "there  goeth  Zara- 
thustra to  hell!" 

About  the  same  time  that  these  sailors  landed  on  the 
fire-isle,  there  was  a  rumour  that  Zarathustra  had  disap- 
peared ;  and  when  his  friends  were  asked  about  it,  they  said 
that  he  had  gone  on  board  a  ship  by  night,  without  saying 
whither  he  was  going. 

Thus  there  arose  some  uneasiness.  After  three  days,  how- 
ever, there  came  the  story  of  the  ship's  crew  in  addition  to 
this  uneasiness — and  then  did  all  the  people  say  that  the 
devil  had  taken  Zarathustra.  His  disciples  laughed,  sure 
enough,  at  this  talk;  and  one  of  them  said  even:  "Sooner 
would  I  believe  that  Zarathustra  hath  taken  the  devil." 
But  at  the  bottom  of  their  hearts  they  were  all  full  of 
anxiety  and  longing:  so  their  joy  was  great  when  on  the 
fifth  day  Zarathustra  appeared  amongst  them. 

And  this  is  the  account  of  Zarathustra's  interview  with 
the  fire-dog: 

The  earth,  said  he,  hath  a  skin;  and  this  skin  hath  dis- 
eases.    One   of    these   diseases,    for   example,    is    called 


"man." 


And  another  of  these  diseases  is  called  "the  fire-dog": 
concerning  him  men  have  greatly  deceived  themselves,  and 
let  themselves  be  deceived. 

To  fathom  this  mystery  did  I  go  o'er  the  sea;  and  I  have 
seen  the  truth  naked,  verily!  barefooted  up  to  the  neck. 

Now  do  I  know  how  it  is  concerning  the  fire-dog;  and 
likewise  concerning  all  the  spouting  and  subversive  devils,  of 
which  not  only  old  women  are  afraid. 

"Up  with  thee,  fire-dog,  out  of  thy  depth!"  cried  I,  "and 
confess  how  deep  that  depth  is!  Whence  cometh  that 
which  thou  snortest  up? 

Thou  drinkest  copiously  at  the  sea:  that  doth  thine  em- 
bittered eloquence  betray!  In  sooth,  for  a  dog  of  the 
depth,  thou  takest  thy  nourishment  too  much  from  the 
surface! 

At  the  most,  I  regard  thee  as  the  ventriloquist  of  the 


142 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  II 


XL— GREAT  EVENTS 


143 


earth:  and  ever,  when  I  have  heard  subversive  and  spouting 
devils  speak,  I  have  found  them  like  thee:  embittered,  men- 
dacious, and  shallow. 

Ye  understand  how  to  roar  and  obscure  with  ashes!  Ye 
are  the  best  braggarts,  and  have  sufficiently  learned  the  art 
of  making  dregs  boil. 

Where  ye  are,  there  must  always  be  dregs  at  hand,  and 
much  that  is  spongy,  hollow,  and  compressed:  it  wanteth  to 
have  freedom. 

'Freedom'  ye  all  roar  most  eagerly:  but  I  have  unlearned 
the  belief  in  'great  events,'  when  there  is  much  roaring  and 
smoke  about  them. 

And  believe  me,  friend  HoUaballooI  The  greatest  events 
— are  not  our  noisiest,  but  our  stillest  hours. 

Not  around  the  inventors  of  new  noise,  but  around  the 
inventors  of  new  values,  doth  the  world  revolve;  inaudibly 
it  revolveth. 

And  just  own  to  it!  Little  had  ever  taken  place  when 
thy  noise  and  smoke  passed  away.  What,  if  a  city  did  be- 
come a  mummy,  and  a  statue  lay  in  the  mud! 

And  this  do  I  say  also  to  the  o'erthrowers  of  statues: 
It  is  certainly  the  greatest  folly  to  throw  salt  into  the  sea, 
and  statues  into  the  mud. 

In  the  mud  of  your  contempt  lay  the  statue:  but  it  is 
just  its  law,  that  out  of  contempt,  its  life  and  living  beauty 
grow  again! 

With  diviner  features  doth  it  now  arise,  seducing  by  its 
suffering;  and  verily!  it  will  yet  thank  you  for  overthrowing 
it,  ye  subverters! 

This  counsel,  however,  do  I  counsel  to  kings  and  churches, 
and  to  all  that  is  weak  with  age  or  virtue — let  yourselves  be 
overthrown!  That  ye  may  again  come  to  life,  and  that 
virtue — may  come  to  you! — " 

Thus  spake  I  before  the  fire-dog:  then  did  he  interrupt 
me  sullenly,  and  asked:     "Church?    What  is  that?" 

"Church?"  answered  I,  "that  is  a  kind  of  state,  and  in- 
deed the  most  mendacious.  But  remain  quiet,  thou  dis- 
sembling dog!  Thou  surely  knowest  thine  own  species 
best! 

Like  thyself  the  state  is  a  dissembling  dog;  like  thee  doth 


it  like  to  speak  with  smoke  and  roaring — to  make  believe^ 
like  thee,  that  it  speaketh  out  of  the  heart  of  things. 

For  it  seeketh  by  all  means  to  be  the  most  important 
creature  on  earth,  the  state;  and  people  think  it  so." 

When  I  had  said  this,  the  fire-dog  acted  as  if  mad  with 
envy.  "What!"  cried  he,  "the  most  important  creature  on 
earth?  And  people  think  it  so?"  And  so  much  vapour  and 
terrible  voices  came  out  of  his  throat,  that  I  thought  he 
would  choke  with  vexation  and  envy. 

At  last  he  became  calmer  and  his  panting  subsided;  as 
soon,  however,  as  he  was  quiet,  I  said  laughingly: 

"Thou  art  angry,  fire-dog:  so  I  am  in  the  right  about 
thee! 

And  that  I  may  also  maintain  the  right,  hear  the  story  of 
another  fire-dog;  he  speaketh  actually  out  of  the  heart  of 
the  earth. 

Gold  doth  his  breath  exhale,  and  golden  rain:  so  doth 
his  heart  desire.  What  are  ashes  and  smoke  and  hot  dregs 
to  him! 

Laughter  flitteth  from  him  like  a  variegated  cloud;  ad- 
verse is  he  to  thy  gargling  and  spewing  and  grips  in  the 
bowels! 

The  gold,  however,  and  the  laughter — these  doth  he  take 
out  of  the  heart  of  the  earth:  for,  that  thou  mayst  know  it, 
— the  heart  of  the  earth  is  of  gold." 

When  the  fire-dog  heard  this,  he  could  no  longer  endure 
to  listen  to  me.  Abashed  did  he  draw  in  his  tail,  said 
"bow-wow!"  in  a  cowed  voice,  and  crept  down  into  his 
cave. — 

Thus  told  Zarathustra.  His  disciples,  however,  hardly 
listened  to  him:  so  great  was  their  eagerness  to  tell  him 
about  the  sailors,  the  rabbits,  and  the  flying  man. 

"What  am  I  to  think  of  it!"  said  Zarathustra.  "Am  I 
indeed  a  ghost? 

But  it  may  have  been  my  shadow.  Ye  have  surely  heard 
something  of  the  Wanderer  and  his  Shadow? 

One  thing,  however,  is  certain :  I  must  keep  a  tighter  hold 
of  it;  otherwise  it  will  spoil  my  reputation." 

And  once  more  Zarathustra  shook  his  head  and  wondered. 
"What  am  I  to  think  of  it!"  said  he  once  more. 


144  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  II 

"Why  did  the  ghost  cry:  'It  is  time!     It  is  the  highest 
time  I' 

For  what  is  it  then— the  highest  time?"— 
Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


XLI— THE  SOOTHSAYER 


145 


XLI.— THE   SOOTHSAYER 

" — ^And  I  saw  a  great  sadness  come  over  mankind.  The 
best  turned  weary  of  their  works. 

A  doctrine  appeared,  a  faith  ran  beside  it:  'All  is  emotv 
all  is  alike,  all  hath  been!' 

And  from  all  hills  there  re-echoed:  'All  is  empty,  all  is 
alike,  all  hath  been!' 

To  be  sure  we  have  harvested:  but  why  have  all  our 
fruits  become  rotten  and  brown?  What  was  it  fell  last 
night  from  the  evil  moon? 

In  vain  was  all  our  labour,  poison  hath  our  wine  be- 
come, the  evil  eye  hath  singed  yellow  our  fields  and  hearts. 

Arid  have  we  all  become;  and  fire  falling  upon  us,  then 
do  we  turn  dust  like  ashes:— yea,  the  fire  itself  have  we 
made  aweary. 

All  our  fountains  have  dried  up,  even  the  sea  hath  re- 
ceded. All  the  ground  trieth  to  gape,  but  the  depth  will 
not  swallow! 

'Alas!  where  is  there  still  a  sea  in  which  one  could  be 
drowned?'  so  soundeth  our  plaint— across  shallow  swamps. 

Verily,  even  for  dying  have  we  become  too  weary;  now 
do  we  keep  awake  and  live  on — in  sepulchres." 

Thus  did  Zarathustra  hear  a  soothsayer  speak;  and  the 
foreboding  touched  his  heart  and  transformed  him.  Sor- 
rowfully did  he  go  about  and  wearily;  and  he  became  like 
unto  those  of  whom  the  soothsayer  had  spoken. — 

Verily,  said  he  unto  his  disciples,  a  little  while,  and  there 
Cometh  the  long  twilight.  Alas,  how  shall  I  preserve  my 
light  through  it! 

That  it  may  not  smother  in  this  sorrowfulness!    To  re- 


moter worlds  shall  it  be  a  light,  and  also  to  remotest  nights! 

Thus  did  Zarathustra  go  about  grieved  in  his  heart,  and 
for  three  days  he  did  not  take  any  meat  or  drink:  he  had 
no  rest,  and  lost  his  speech.  At  last  it  came  to  pass  that 
he  fell  into  a  deep  sleep.  His  disciples,  however,  sat  around 
him  in  long  night-watches,  and  waited  anxiously  to  see  if 
he  would  awake,  and  speak  again,  and  recover  from  his  af- 
fliction. 

And  this  is  the  discourse  that  Zarathustra  spake  when  he 
awoke;  his  voice,  however,  came  unto  his  disciples  as  from 
afar: 

Hear,  I  pray  you,  the  dream  that  I  dreamed,  my  friends, 
and  help  me  to  divine  its  meaning! 

A  riddle  is  it  still  unto  me,  this  dream;  the  meaning  is 
hidden  in  it  and  encaged,  and  doth  not  yet  fly  above  it  on 
free  pinions. 

All  life  had  I  renounced,  so  I  dreamed.  Night-watchman 
and  grave-guardian  had  I  become,  aloft,  in  the  lone  moun- 
tain-fortress of  Death. 

There  did  I  guard  his  coffins:  full  stood  the  musty  vaults 
of  those  trophies  of  victory.  Out  of  glass  coffins  did  van- 
quished life  gaze  upon  me. 

The  odour  of  dust-covered  eternities  did  I  breathe:  sultry 
and  dust-covered  lay  my  soul.  And  who  could  have  aired 
his  soul  there! 

Brightness  of  midnight  was  ever  around  me;  lonesome- 
ness  cowered  beside  her;  and  as  a  third,  death-rattle  still- 
ness, the  worst  of  my  female  friends. 

Keys  did  I  carry,  the  rustiest  of  all  keys;  and  I  knew  how 
to  open  with  them  the  most  creaking  of  all  gates. 

Like  a  bitterly  angry  croaking  ran  the  sound  through 
the  long  corridors  when  the  leaves  of  the  gate  opened:  im- 
graciously  did  this  bird  cry,  unwillingly  was  it  awakened. 

But  more  frightful  even,  and  more  heart-strangling  was 
it,  when  it  again  became  silent  and  still  all  around,  and  I 
alone  sat  in  that  malignant  silence. 

Thus  did  time  pass  with  me,  and  slip  by,  if  time  there 
still  was:  what  do  I  know  thereof!  But  at  last  there  hap- 
pened that  which  awoke  me. 

Thrice  did  there  peal  peals  at  the  gate  like  thunders, 


146  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  II 

thrice  did  the  vaults  resound  and  howl  again:  then  did  I 
go  to  the  gate. 

Alpa !  cried  I,  who  carrieth  his  ashes  unto  the  mountain? 
Alpa!  Alpa!  who  carrieth  his  ashes  unto  the  mountain? 

And  I  pressed  the  key,  and  pulled  at  the  gate,  and  ex- 
erted myself.    But  not  a  finger 's-breadth  was  it  yet  open: 

Then  did  a  roaring  wind  tear  the  folds  apart:  whistling 
whizzing,  and  piercing,  it  threw  unto  me  a  black  coffin. 

And  in  the  roaring,  and  whistling,  and  whizzing  the  coffin 
burst  up,  and  spouted  out  a  thousand  peals  of  laughter. 

And  a  thousand  caricatures  of  children,  angels,  owls 
fools,  and  child-sized  butterflies  laughed  and  mocked  and 
roared  at  me.  * 

Fearfully  was  I  terrified  thereby:  it  prostrated  me.  And 
I  cried  with  horror  as  I  ne'er  cried  before. 

But  mine  own  crying  awoke  me:— and  I  came  to  my- 
self.—  ^ 

Thus  did  Zarathustra  relate  his  dream,  and  then  was 
silent:  for  as  yet  he  knew  not  the  interpretation  thereof. 
But  the  disciple  whom  he  loved  most  arose  quickly,  seized 
Zarathustra's  hand,  and  said: 

"Thy  life  itself  interpreteth  unto  us  this  dream,  O  Zara- 
thustra I 

Art  thou  not  thyself  the  wind  with  shrill  whistling,  which 
bursteth  open  the  gates  of  the  fortress  of  Death? 

Art  thou  not  thyself  the  coffin  full  of  many-hued  malices 
and  angel-caricatures  of  life? 

Verily,  like  a  thousand  peals  of  children's  laughter  Com- 
eth Zarathustra  into  all  sepulchres,  laughing  at  those  night- 
watchmen  and  grave-guardians,  and  whoever  else  rattleth 
with  sinister  keys. 

With  thy  laughter  wilt  thou  frighten  and  prostrate  them: 
fainting  and  recovering  will  demonstrate  thy  power  over 
them. 

And  when  the  long  twilight  cometh  and  the  mortal  weari- 
ness, even  then  wilt  thou  not  disappear  from  our  firmament, 
thou  advocate  of  life! 

New  stars  hast  thou  made  us  see,  and  new  nocturnal 
glories:  verily,  laughter  itself  hast  thou  spread  out  over  us 
like  a  many-hued  canopy. 


XLII— REDEMPTION 


147 


Now  will  children's  laughter  ever  from  coffins  flow;  now 
will  a  strong  wind  ever  come  victoriously  unto  all  mortal 
weariness:  of  this  thou  art  thyself  the  pledge  and  the 
prophet! 

Verily,  they  themselves  didst  thou  dream,  thine  enemies: 
that  was  thy  sorest  dream. 

But  as  thou  awokest  from  them  and  camest  to  thyself,  so 
shall  they  awaken  from  themselves — and  come  unto  thee!" 

Thus  spake  the  disciple;  and  all  the  others  then  thronged 
around  Zarathustra,  grasped  him  by  the  hands,  and  tried 
to  persuade  him  to  leave  his  bed  and  his  sadness,  and  return 
unto  them.  Zarathustra,  however,  sat  upright  on  his  couch, 
with  an  absent  look.  Like  one  returning  from  long  foreign 
sojourn  did  he  look  on  his  disciples,  and  examined  their 
features;  but  still  he  knew  them  not.  When,  however,  .they 
raised  him,  and  set  him  upon  his  feet,  behold,  all  on  a  sud- 
den his  eye  changed;  he  understood  everything  that  had 
happened,  stroked  his  beard,  and  said  with  a  strong  voice: 

'Well!  this  hath  just  its  time;  but  see  to  it,  my  disciples, 
that  we  have  a  good  repast,  and  without  delay  1  Thus  do  I 
mean  to  make  amends  for  bad  dreams! 

The  soothsayer,  however,  shall  eat  and  drink  at  my  side: 
and  verily,  I  will  yet  show  him  a  sea  in  which  he  can 
drown  himself! " — 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra.  Then  did  he  gaze  long  into  the 
face  of  the  disciple  who  had  been  the  dream-interpreter,  and 
shook  his  head. — 


XLII.— REDEMPTION 

When  Zarathustra  went  one  day  over  the  great  bridge, 
then  did  the  cripples  and  beggars  surround  him,  and  a 
hunchback  spake  thus  unto  him: 

"Behold,  Zarathustra!  Even  the  people  learn  from  thee, 
and  acquire  faith  in  thy  teaching:  but  for  them  to  believe 
fully  in  thee,  one  thing  is  still  needful— thou  must  first  of 
all  convince  us  cripples!     Here  hast  thou  now  a  fine  selec- 


148  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  II 

tion  and  verily,  an  opportunity  with  more  than  one  fore^ 
lock!  The  bhnd  canst  thou  heal,  and  make  the  lame  run- 
and  from  him  who  hath  too  much  behind,  couldst  thou  well' 
also  take  away  a  little;— that,  I  think,  would  be  the  right 
method  to  make  the  cripples  believe  in  Zarathustra!" 

Zarathustra,  however,  answered  thus  unto  him  who  so 
spake:  When  one  taketh  his  hump  from  the  hunchback 
then  doth  one  take  from  him  his  spirit— so  do  the  people 
teach.  And  when  one  giveth  the  blind  man  eyes,  then  doth 
he  see  too  many  bad  things  on  the  earth:  so  that  he  curseth 
him  who  healed  him.  He,  however,  who  maketh  the  lame 
man  run,  inflicteth  upon  him  the  greatest  injury;  for  hardly 
can  he  run,  when  his  vices  run  away  with  him— so  do  the 
people  teach  concerning  cripples.  And  why  should  not 
Zarathustra  also  learn  from  the  people,  when  the  peoDle 
learn  from  Zarathustra? 

It  is,  however,  the  smallest  thing  unto  me  since  I  have 
been  amongst  men,  to  see  one  person  lacking  an  eye,  another 
an  ear,  and  a  third  a  leg,  and  that  others  have  lost  the 
tongue,  or  the  nose,  or  the  head. 

I  see  and  have  seen  worse  things,  and  divers  things  so 
hideous,  that  I  should  neither  like  to  speak  of  all  matters 
nor  even  keep  silent  about  some  of  them:  namely,  men  who 
lack  everything,  except  that  they  have  too  much  of  one 
thing— men  who  are  nothing  more  than  a  big  eye,  or  a  big 
mouth,  or  a  big  belly,  or  something  else  big,— reversed  crip- 
ples, I  call  such  men. 

^  And  when  I  came  out  of  my  solitude,  and  for  the  first 
time  passed  over  this  bridge,  then  I  could  not  trust  mine 
eyes,  but  looked  again  and  again,  and  said  at  last:  "That 
is  an  ear!  An  ear  as  big  as  a  man!"  I  looked  still  more 
attentively— and  actually  there  did  move  under  the  ear 
something  that  was  pitiably  small  and  poor  and  slim.  And 
in  truth  this  immense  ear  was  perched  on  a  small  thin  stalk 
—the  stalk,  however,  was  a  man!  A  person  putting  a  glass 
to  his  eyes,  could  even  recognise  further  a  small  envious 
countenance,  and  also  that  a  bloated  soullet  dangled  at  the 
stalk.  The  people  told  me,  however,  that  the  big  ear  was 
not  only  a  man,  but  a  great  man,  a  genius.  But  I  never 
believed  in  the  people  when  they  spake  of  great  men— ana 


XLII— REDEMPTION 


149 


I  hold  to  my  belief  that  it  was  a  reversed  cripple,  who  had 
too  little  of  everything,  and  too  much  of  one  thing. 

When  Zarathustra  had  spoken  thus  unto  the  hunchback, 
and  unto  those  of  whom  the  hunchback  was  the  mouthpiece 
and  advocate,  then  did  he  turn  to  his  disciples  in  profound 
dejection,  and  said: 

Verily,  my  friends,  I  walk  amongst  men  as  amongst  the 
fragments  and  limbs  of  human  beings! 

This  is  the  terrible  thing  to  mine  eye,  that  I  find  man 
broken  up,  and  scattered  about,  as  on  a  battle-  and  butcher- 
ground. 

And  when  mine  eye  fleeth  from  the  present  to  the  by- 
gone, it  findeth  ever  the  same:  fragments  and  limbs  and 
fearful  chances — but  no  men! 

The  present  and  the  bygone  upon  earth — ah!  my  friends 
— that  is  my  most  unbearable  trouble ;  and  I  should  not 
know  how  to  live,  if  I  were  not  a  seer  of  what  is  to  come. 

A  seer,  a  purposer,  a  creator,  a  future  itself,  and  a  bridge 
to  the  future — and  alas!  also  as  it  were  a  cripple  on  this 
bridge:  all  that  is  Zarathustra. 

And  ye  also  asked  yourselves  often:  "Who  is  Zara- 
thustra to  us?  What  shall  he  be  called  by  us?"  And  like 
me,  did  ye  give  yourselves  questions  for  answers. 

Is  he  a  promiser?  Or  a  fulfiUer?  A  conqueror?  Or  an 
inheritor?  A  harvest?  Or  a  ploughshare?  A  physician? 
Or  a  healed  one? 

Is  he  a  poet?  Or  a  genuine  one?  An  emancipator?  Or 
a  subjugator?    A  good  one?    Or  an  evil  one? 

I  walk  amongst  men  as  the  fragments  of  the  future:  that 
future  which  I  contemplate. 

And  it  is  all  my  poetisation  and  aspiration,  to  compose 
and  collect  into  unity  what  is  fragment  and  riddle  and  fear- 
ful chance. 

And  how  could  I  endure  to  be  a  man,  if  man  were  not 
also  the  composer,  and  riddle-reader,  and  redeemer  of 
chance! 

To  redeem  what  is  past,  and  to  transform  every  "It  was" 
into  "Thus  would  I  have  it!" — that  only  do  I  call  redemp- 
tion! 

Will — ^so  is  the  emancipator  and  joy-bringer  called:  thus 


150  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  II 

have  I  taught  you,  my  friends!     But  now  learn  this  like- 
wise: the  Will  itself  is  still  a  prisoner. 

Willing  emancipateth:  but  what  is  that  called  which  still 
putteth  the  emancipator  in  chains? 

"It  was":  thus  is  the  Will's  teeth-gnashing  and  lone- 
somest  tribulation  called.  Impotent  towards  what  hath 
been  done— it  is  a  malicious  spectator  of  all  that  is  past 
^  Not  backward  can  the  Will  will;  that  it  cannot  break 
time  and  time's  desire— that  is  the  Will's  lonesomest  tribu- 
lation. 

Willing  emancipateth:  what  doth  Willing  itself  devise  in 
order  to  get  free  from  its  tribulation  and  mock  at  its  prison? 

Ah,  a  fool  becometh  every  prisoner!  Foolishly  delivereth 
Itself  also  the  imprisoned  Will. 

urj?^^  ^™^  ^^*  ^^^  ^"^  backward— that  is  its  animosity 

That  which  was":  so  is  the  stone  which  it  cannot  roll 

called.  ' 

And  thus  doth  it  roll  stones  out  of  animosity  and  ill- 
humour,  and  taketh  revenge  on  whatever  doth  not,  like  it 
feel  rage  and  ill-humour.  ' 

Thus  did  the  Will,  the  emancipator,  become  a  torturer- 
and  on  all  that  is  capable  of  suffering  it  taketh  revenge  be- 
cause it  cannot  go  backward.  ' 

This,  yea  this  alone  is  revenge  itself:  the  Will's  antipathy 
to  time,  and  its  "It  was."  ' 

Verily,  a  great  folly  dwelleth  in  our  Will;  and  it  became 
a  curse  unto  all  humanity,  that  this  folly  acquired  spirit! 

The  spirit  of  revenge:  my  friends,  that  hath  hitherto  been 
man's  best  contemplation;  and  where  there  was  suffering. 
it  was  claimed  there  was  always  penalty. 
^   "Penalty,"  so  calleth  itself  revenge.    With  a  lying  word 
it  feigneth  a  good  conscience. 

And  because  in  the  wilier  himself  there  is  suffering,  be- 
cause he  cannot  will  backwards— thus  was  Willing  itself, 
and  all  life,  claimed— to  be  penalty! 

And  then  did  cloud  after  cloud  roll  over  the  spirit,  until 
at  last  madness  preached:  "Everything  perisheth,  there- 
fore everything  deserveth  to  perish ! " 

"And  this  itself  is  justice,  the  law  of  time— that  he  mus: 
devour  his  children:"  thus  did  madness  preach. 


XLII— REDEMPTION 


151 


"Morally  are  things  ordered  according  to  justice  and 
penalty.  Oh,  where  is  there  deliverance  from  the  flux  of 
things  and  from  the  'existence'  of  penalty?"  Thus  did 
madness  preach. 

"Can  there  be  deliverance  when  there  is  eternal  justice? 
Alas,  unrollable  is  the  stone,  'It  was':  eternal  must  also  be 
all  penalties!"    Thus  did  madness  preach. 

"No  deed  can  be  annihilated :  how  could  it  be  undone  by 
the  penalty!  This,  this  is  what  is  eternal  in  the  'existence' 
of  penalty,  that  existence  also  must  be  eternally  recurring 
deed  and  guilt! 

Unless  the  Will  should  at  last  deliver  itself,  and  Willing 
become  non- Willing — :"  but  ye  know,  my  brethren,  this 
fabulous  song  of  madness! 

Away  from  those  fabulous  songs  did  I  lead  you  when  I 
taught  you:     "The  Will  is  a  creator." 

All  "It  was"  is  a  fragment,  a  riddle,  a  fearful  chance — 
until  the  creating  Will  saith  thereto:  "But  thus  would  I 
have  it." — 

Until  the  creating  Will  saith  thereto:  "But  thus  do  I 
will  it!    Thus  shall  I  will  it!" 

But  did  it  ever  speak  thus?  And  when  doth  this  take 
place?  Hath  the  Will  been  unharnessed  from  its  own 
folly? 

Hath  the  Will  become  its  own  deliverer  and  joy-bringer? 
Hath  it  unlearned  the  spirit  of  revenge  and  all  teeth-gnash- 
ing? 

And  who  hath  taught  it  reconciliation  with  time,  and 
something  higher  than  all  reconciliation? 

Something  higher  than  all  reconciliation  must  the  Will 
will  which  is  the  Will  to  Power — :  but  how  doth  that  take 
place?    Who  hath  taught  it  also  to  will  backwards? 

— But  at  this  point  in  his  discourse  it  chanced  that  Zara- 
thustra  suddenly  paused,  and  looked  like  a  person  in  the 
greatest  alarm.  With  terror  in  his  eyes  did  he  gaze  on  his 
disciples;  his  glances  pierced  as  with  arrows  their  thoughts 
and  arrear-thoughts.  But  after  a  brief  space  he  again 
laughed,  and  said  soothedly: 

"It  is  difficult  to  live  amongst  men,  because  silence  is 
so  difficult — especially  for  a  babbler." — 


152  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  II 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra.  The  hunchback,  however,  had 
listened  to  the  conversation  and  had  covered  his  face  durine 
the  time;  but  when  he  heard  Zarathustra  laugh,  he  looked 
up  with  curiosity,  and  said  slowly: 

"But  why  doth  Zarathustra  speak  otherwise  unto  us  than 
unto  his  disciples?" 

Zarathustra  answered:  "What  is  there  to  be  wondered 
at  I  With  hunchbacks  one  may  well  speak  in  a  hunch- 
backed way!" 

"Very  good,"  said  the  hunchback;  "and  with  pupils  one 
may  well  tell  tales  out  of  school. 

But  why  doth  Zarathustra  speak  otherwise  unto  his  dudüs 
—than  unto  himself?"—  ^  ^ 


XLIII.— MANLY  PRUDENCE 

Not  the  height,  it  is  the  declivity  that  is  terrible! 

The  declivity,  where  the  gaze  shooteth  downwards,  and 
the  hand  graspeth  upwards.  There  doth  the  heart  become 
•  giddy  through  its  double  will. 

Ah,  friends,  do  ye  divine  also  my  heart's  double  will? 

This,  this  is  my  declivity  and  my  danger,  that  my  gaze 
shooteth  towards  the  summit,  and  my  hand  would  fain 
clutch  and  lean — on  the  depth! 

To  man  clingeth  my  will;  with  chains  do  I  bind  myself  to 
man,  because  I  am  pulled  upwards  to  the  Superman:  for 
thither  doth  mine  other  will  tend. 

And  therefore  do  I  live  blindly  among  men,  as  if  I  knew 
them  not:  that  my  hand  may  not  entirely  lose  belief  in 
firmness. 

I  know  not  you  men:  this  gloom  and  consolation  is  often 
spread  around  me. 

I  sit  at  the  gateway  for  every  rogue,  and  ask:  Who 
wisheth  to  deceive  me? 

This  is  my  first  manly  prudence,  that  I  allow  myself  to 

be  deceived,  so  as  not  to  be  on  my  guard  against  deceivers. 

Ah,  if  I  were  on  my  guard  against  man,  how  could  man 

e  an  anchor  to  my  ball!    Too  easily  would  I  be  pulled  up- 

ards  and  awayl 


XLIII— MANLY  PRUDENCE 


153 


This  providence  is  over  my  fate,  that  I  have  to  be  without 
foresight. 

And  he  who  would  not  languish  amongst  men,  must  learn 
to  drink  out  of  all  glasses;  and  he  who  would  keep  clean 
amongst  men,  must  know  how  to  wash  himself  even  with 
dirty  water. 

And  thus  spake  I  often  to  myself  for  consolation:  "Cour- 
age! Cheer  up!  old  heart!  An  unhappiness  hath  failed  to 
befall  thee:  enjoy  that  as  thy — happiness!" 

This,  however,  is  mine  other  manly  prudence:  I  am 
more  forbearing  to  the  vain  than  to  the  proud. 

Is  not  wounded  vanity  the  mother  of  all  tragedies? 
Where,  however,  pride  is  wounded,  there  there  groweth  up 
something  better  than  pride. 

That  life  may  be  fair  to  behold,  its  game  must  be  well 
played;  for  that  purpose,  however,  it  needeth  good 
actors. 

Good  actors  have  I  found  all  the  vain  ones:  they  play, 
and  wish  people  to  be  fond  of  beholding  them— all  their 
spirit  is  in  this  wish. 

They  represent  themselves,  they  invent  themselves;  in 
their  neighbourhood  I  like  to  look  upon  life— it  cureth  of 
melancholy. 

Therefore  am  I  forbearing  to  the  vain,  because  they  are 
the  physicians  of  my  melancholy,  and  keep  me  attached 
to  man  as  to  a  drama. 

And  further,  who  conceiveth  the  full  depth  of  the  mod- 
esty of  the  vain  man!  I  am  favourable  to  him,  and  sym- 
pathetic on  account  of  his  modesty. 

From  you  would  he  learn  his  belief  in  himself;  he  feedeth 
upon  your  glances,  he  eateth  praise  out  of  your  hands. 

Your  lies  doth  he  even  believe  when  you  lie  favourably 

about  him:   for  in  its  depths  sigheth  his  heart:     "What 
am  /?" 

And  if  that  be  the  true  virtue  which  is  unconscious  of 
Itself— well,  the  vain  man  is  unconscious  of  his  modesty! — 

This  is,  however,  my  third  manly  prudence:  I  am  not 
put  out  of  conceit  with  the  wicked  by  your  timorousness. 

I  am  happy  to  see  the  marvels  the  warm  sun  hatcheth: 
tigers  and  palms  and  rattle-snakes. 


154  THUS  SPAKE  2ARATHUSTRA,  II 

Also  amongst  men  there  is  a  beautiful  brood  of  the  warm 
sun,  and  much  that  is  marvellous  in  the  wicked. 

In  truth,  as  your  wisest  did  not  seem  to  me  so  very  wise, 
so  found  I  also  human  wickedness  below  the  fame 
of  it. 

And  oft  did  I  ask  with  a  shake  of  the  head:  Why  still 
rattle,  ye  rattle-snakes? 

Verily,  there  is  still  a  future  even  for  evil!  And  the 
warmest  south  is  still  undiscovered  by  man. 

How  many  things  are  now  called  the  worst  wickedness, 
which  are  only  twelve  feet  broad  and  three  months  longl' 
Some  day,  however,  will  greater  dragons  come  into  the 
world. 

For  that  the  Superman  may  not  lack  his  dragon,  the 
superdragon  that  is  worthy  of  him,  there  must  still  much 
warm  sun  glow  on  moist  virgin  forests! 

Out  of  your  wild  cats  must  tigers  have  evolved,  and  out 
of  your  poison-toads,  crocodiles:  for  the  good  hunter  shall 
have  a  good  hunt! 

And  verily,  ye  good  and  just!  In  you  there  is  much  to 
be  laughed  at,  and  especially  your  fear  of  what  hath  hitherto 
been  called  "the  devil!" 

So  alien  are  ye  in  your  souls  to  what  is  great,  that  to 
you  the  Superman  would  be  frightful  in  his  goodness! 

And  ye  wise  and  knowing  ones,  ye  would  flee  from  the 
solar-glow  of  the  wisdom  in  which  the  Superman  joyfully 
batheth  his  nakedness! 

Ye  highest  men  who  have  come  within  my  ken !  this  is  my 
doubt  of  you,  and  my  secret  laughter:  I  suspect  ye  would 
call  my  Superman — a  devil! 

Ah,  I  became  tired  of  those  highest  and  best  ones:  from 
their  "height"  did  I  long  to  be  up,  out,  and  away  to  the 
Superman ! 

A  horror  came  over  me  when  I  saw  those  best  ones  naked: 
then  there  grew  for  me  the  pinions  to  soar  away  into  dis- 
tant futures. 

Into  more  distant  futures,  into  more  southern  souths 
than  ever  artist  dreamed  of:  thither,  where  Gods  are 
ashamed  of  all  clothes! 

But  disguised  do  I  want  to  see  you,  ye  neighbours  and 


XLIV— THE  STILLEST  HOUR 


155 


fellowmen,  and  well-attired  and  vain  and  estimable,  as  "the 
good  and  just;" — 

And  disguised  will  I  myself  sit  amongst  you — that  I  may 
mistake  you  and  myself:  for  that  is  my  last  manly  pru- 
dence.— 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


XLIV.— THE   STILLEST   HOUR 

What  hath  happened  unto  me,  my  friends?  Ye  see  me 
troubled,  driven  forth,  unwillingly  obedient,  ready  to  go — 
alas,  to  go  away  from  you! 

Yea,  once  more  must  Zarathustra  retire  to  his  solitude: 
but  un joyously  this  time  doth  the  bear  go  back  to  his  cave! 

What  hath  happened  unto  me?  Who  ordereth  this? — 
Ah,  mine  angry  mistress  wisheth  it  so;  she  spake  unto  me. 
Have  I  ever  named  her  name  to  you? 

Yesterday  towards  evening  there  spake  unto  me  my 
stillest  hour:  that  is  the  name  of  my  terrible  mistress. 

And  thus  did  it  happen — for  everything  must  I  teli  you, 
that  your  heart  may  not  harden  against  the  suddenly  de- 
parting one! 

Do  ye  know  the  terror  of  him  who  falleth  asleep? — 

To  the  very  toes  he  is  terrified,  because  the  ground  giveth 
way  under  him,  and  the  dream  beginneth. 

This  do  I  speak  unto  you  in  parable.  Yesterday  at  the 
stillest  hour  did  the  ground  give  way  under  me:  the  dream 
began. 

The  hour-hand  moved  on,  the  timepiece  of  my  life  drew 
breath — never  did  I  hear  such  stillness  around  me,  so  that 
my  heart  was  terrified. 

Then  was  there  spoken  unto  me  without  voice:  *'Thou 
knowest  it,  Zarathustra?" — 

And  I  cried  in  terror  at  this  whispering,  and  the  blood 
left  my  face:  but  I  was  silent. 

Then  was  there  once  more  spoken  unto  me  without  voice: 
^^Thou  knowest  it,  Zarathustra,  but  thou  dost  not  speak 
it!"— 


■'v:\ 


iS6 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  II 


XLIV— THE  STILLEST  HOUR 


157 


And  at  last  I  answered,  like  one  defiant:  "Yea,  I  know 
it,  but  I  will  not  speak  itl" 

Then  was  there  again  spoken  unto  me  without  voice: 
"Thou  wilt  not,  Zarathustra?  Is  this  true?  Conceal  thy- 
self not  behind  thy  defiance  1" — 

And  I  wept  and  trembled  like  a  child,  and  said:  "Ah,  I 
would  indeed,  but  how  can  I  do  it!  Exempt  me  only  from 
this!     It  is  beyond  my  power!" 

Then  was  there  again  spoken  unto  me  without  voice: 
"What  matter  about  thyself,  Zarathustra!  Speak  thy  word, 
and  succumb ! " 

And  I  answered:  "Ah,  is  it  my  word?  Who  am  I?  I 
await  the  worthier  one;  I  am  not  worthy  even  to  succumb 
by  if' 

Then  was  there  again  spoken  unto  me  without  voice: 
"What  matter  about  thyself?  Thou  art  not  yet  humble 
enough  for  me.    Humility  hath  the  hardest  skin." — 

And  I  answered:  "What  hath  not  the  skin  of  my  hu- 
mility endured!  At  the  foot  of  my  height  do  I  dwell:  how 
high  are  my  summits,  no  one  hath  yet  told  me.  But  well 
do  I  know  my  valleys." 

Then  was  there  again  spoken  unto  me  without  voice: 
"O  Zarathustra,  he  who  hath  to  remove  mountains  re- 
moveth  also  valleys  and  plains." — 

And  I  answered:  "As  yet  hath  my  word  not  removed 
mountains,  and  what  I  have  spoken  hath  not  reached  man- 
I  went,  indeed,  unto  men,  but  not  yet  have  I  attained  unto 
them." 

Then  was  there  again  spoken  unto  me  without  voice: 

"What  knowest  thou   thereof/     The  dew   falleth  on  the 

grass  when  the  night  is  most  silent." — 

"^   And  I  answered:     **They  mocked  me  when  I  found  and 

^    walked  in  mine  own  path;  and  certainly  did  my  feet  then 

\    tremble. 

And  thus  did  they  speak  unto  me:  Thou  forgo ttest 
the  path  before,  now  dost  thou  also  forget  how  to 
walk!" 

Then  was  there  again  spoken  unto  me  without  voice: 
"What  matter  about  their  mockery!  Thou  art  one,  who 
hast  unlearned  to  obey:  now  shalt  thou  command! 


Knowest  thou  not  who  is  most  needed  by  all?  He  who 
commandeth  great  things. 

To  execute  great  things  is  difficult:  but  the  more  difficult 
task  is  to  command  great  things. 

This  is  thy  most  unpardonable  obstinacy:  thou  hast  the 
power,  and  thou  wilt  not  rule." — 

And  I  answered:  "I  lack  the  lion's  voice  for  all  com- 
manding." 

Then  was  there  again  spoken  unto  me  as  a  whispermg: 
"It  is  the  stillest  words  which  bring  the  storm.  Thoughts 
that  come  with  doves'  footsteps  guide  the  world. 

0  Zarathustra,  thou  shalt  go  as  a  shadow  of  that  which 
is  to  come:  thus  wilt  thou  command,  and  in  commanding 
go  foremost." — 

And  I  answered:    "I  am  ashamed." 

Then  was  there  again  spoken  unto  me  without  voice: 
"Thou  must  yet  become  a  child,  and  be  without  shame. 

The  pride  of  youth  is  still  upon  thee;  late  hast  thou  be- 
come young:  but  he  who  would  become  a  child  must  sur- 
mount even  his  youth." — 

And  I  considered  a  long  while,  and  trembled.  At  last, 
however,  did  I  say  what  I  had  said  at  first.     "I  will 

not." 

Then  did  a  laughing  take  place  all  around  me.  Alas,  how 
that  laughing  lacerated  my  bowels  and  cut  into  my  heart! 

And  there  was  spoken  unto  me  for  the  last  time:  "O 
Zarathustra,  thy  fruits  are  ripe,  but  thou  art  not  ripe  for 

thy  fruits! 
So  must  thou  go  again  into  solitude:  for  thou  shalt  yet 

become  mellow." —  . 

And  again  was  there  a  laughing,  and  it  fled:  then  did  it 
become  still  around  me,  as  with  a  double  stillness.  I  lay, 
however,  on  the  ground,  and  the  sweat  flowed  from  my 
limbs. 

—Now  have  ye  heard  all,  and  why  I  have  to  return  into 
my  solitude.     Nothing  have  I  kept  hidden  from  you,  my 

friends. 
But  even  this  have  ye  heard  from  me,  who  is  still  the 

most  reserved  of  men — and  will  be  so! 
Ah,  m.y  friendsl    I  should  have  something  more  to  say 


V 


N 


158 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  II 


unto  you!    I  should  have  something  more  to  give  unto  you! 
Why  do  I  not  give  it?    Am  I  then  a  niggard? — 

Whep,  however,  Zarathustra  had  spoken  these  words,  the 
violence  of  his  pain,  and  a  sense  of  the  nearness  of  his  de- 
parture from  his  friends  came  over  him,  so  that  he  wept 
aloud;  and  no  one  knew  how  to  console  him.  In  the  night, 
however,  he  went  away  alone  and  left  his  friends. 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA 

THIRD  PART 


"Ye  look  aloft  when  ye 
long  for  exaltation,  and  I 
look  downward  because  I 
am  exalted. 

"Who  among  you  can  at 
the  same  time  laugh  and  be 
exalted  ? 

"He  who  climbeth  on  the 
highest  mountains,  laugheth 
at  all  tragic  plays  and  tragic 
realities."  —  Zarathustra, 
I.,   "Reading  and  Writing 

(p.  S^)- 


}> 


y. 


\ 


XLV.— THE  WANDERER 


Then,  when  it  was  about  midnight,  Zarathustra  went  his 
way  over  the  ridge  of  the  isle,  that  he  might  arrive  early  in 
the  morning  at  the  other  coast;  because  there  he  meant  to 
embark.  For  there  was  a  good  roadstead  there,  in  which 
foreign  ships  also  liked  to  anchor:  those  ships  took  many 
people  with  them,  who  wished  to  cross  over  from  the 
Happy  Isles.  So  when  Zarathustra  thus  ascended  the 
mountain,  he  thought  on  the  way  of  his  many  solitary  wan- 
derings from  youth  onwards,  and  how  many  mountains  and 
ridges  and  summits  he  had  already  climbed. 

I  am  a  wanderer  and  mountain-climber,  said  he  to  his 
heart,  I  love  not  the  plains,  and  it  seemeth  I  cannot  long 
sit  still. 

And  whatever  may  still  overtake  me  as  fate  and  experi- 
ence—a wandering  will  be  therein,  and  a  mountain-climb- 
ing: in  the  end  one  experience th  only  oneself. 

The  time  is  now  past  when  accidents  could  befall  me; 
and  what  could  now  fall  to  my  lot  which  would  not  already 
be  mine  own! 

It  returneth  only,  it  cometh  home  to  me  at  last — mine 
own  Self,  and  such  of  it  as  hath  been  long  abroad,  and  scat- 
tered among  things  and  accidents. 

And  one  thing  more  do  I  know:  I  stand  now  before  my 
last  summit,  and  before  that  which  hath  been  longest  re- 
served for  me.  Ah,  my  hardest  path  must  I  ascend!  Ah, 
I  have  begun  my  lonesomest  wandering! 

He,  however,  who  is  of  my  nature  doth  not  avoid  such  an 
hour:  the  hour  that  saith  unto  him:  Now  only  dost  thou 
go  the  way  to  thy  greatness!  Summit  and  abyss — these  are 
now  comprised  together! 

Thou  goest  the  way  to  thy  greatness:  now  hath  it  become 
thy  last  refuge,  what  was  hitherto  thy  last  danger! 
Thou  goest  the  way  to  thy  greatness :  it  must  now  be  thy 

i6i 


\ 


162 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  III 


XLV— THE  WANDERER 


163 


best  courage  that  there  is  no  longer  any  path  behind 
thee  I 

Thou  goest  the  way  to  thy  greatness:  here  shall  no  one 
steal  after  thee!  Thy  foot  itself  hath  effaced  the  path  be- 
hind thee,  and  over  it  standeth  written:     Impossibility. 

And  if  all  ladders  henceforth  fail  thee,  then  must  thou 
learn  to  mount  upon  thine  own  head:  how  couldst  thou 
mount  upward  otherwise? 

Upon  thine  own  head,  and  beyond  thine  own  heart!  Now 
must  the  gentlest  in  thee  become  the  hardest. 

He  who  hath  always  much-indulged  himself,  sickeneth 
at  last  by  his  much-indulgence.  Praises  on  what  maketh 
hardy!  I  do  not  praise  the  land  where  butter  and  honey 
—flow! 

To  learn  to  look  away  from  oneself,  is  necessary  in  order 
to  see  many  things: — this  hardiness  is  needed  by  every 
mountain-climber. 

He,  however,  who  is  obtrusive  with  his  eyes  as  a  discerner, 
how  can  he  ever  see  more  of  anything  than  its  foreground! 

But  thou,  O  Zarathustra,  wouldst  view  the  ground  of 
everything,  and  its  background:  thus  must  thou  mount 
even  above  thyself — up,  upwards,  until  thou  hast  even  thy 
stars  under  thee! 

Yea!  To  look  down  upon  myself,  and  even  upon  my 
stars:  that  only  would  I  call  my  summit,  that  hath  remained 
for  me  as  my  last  summit! — 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra  to  himself  while  ascending,  com- 
forting his  heart  with  harsh  maxims:  for  he  was  sore  at 
heart  as  he  had  never  been  before.  And  when  he  had 
reached  the  top  of  the  mountain-ridge,  behold,  there  lay 
the  other  sea  spread  out  before  him;  and  he  stood  still  and 
was  long  silent.  The  night,  however,  was  cold  at  this 
height,  and  clear  and  starry. 

I  recognise  my  destiny,  said  he  at  last,  sadly.  Well!  I 
am  ready.    Now  hath  my  last  lonesomeness  begun. 

Ah,  this  sombre,  sad  sea,  below  me!  Ah,  this  sombre 
nocturnal  vexation!  Ah,  fate  and  seal  To  you  must  I  now 
go  down! 

Before  my  highest  mountain  do  I  stand,  and  before  my 


longest  wandering:  therefore  must  I  first  go  deeper  down 
than  I  ever  ascended: 

— Deeper  down  into  pain  than  I  ever  ascended,  even  into 
its  darkest  flood!     So  willeth  my  fate.    Well!     I  am  ready. 

Whence  come  the  highest  mountains?  so  did  I  once  ask. 
Then  did  I  learn  that  they  come  out  of  the  sea. 

That  testimony  is  inscribed  on  their  stones,  and  on  the 
walls  of  their  summits.  Out  of  the  deepest  must  the  highest 
come  to  its  height. — 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra  on  the  ridge  of  the  mountain 
where  it  was  cold :  when,  however,  he  came  into  the  vicinity 
of  the  sea,  and  at  last  stood  alone  amongst  the  cliffs,  then 
had  he  become  weary  on  his  way,  and  eagerer  than  ever 
before. 

Everything  as  yet  sleepeth,  said  he;  even  the  sea  sleep- 
eth.    Drowsily  and  strangely  doth  its  eye  gaze  upon  me. 

But  it  breatheth  warmly — I  feel  it.  And  I  feel  also  that 
it  dreameth.    It  tosseth  about  dreamily  on  hard  pillows. 

Hark!  Hark!  How  it  groaneth  with  evil  recollections  I 
Or  evil  expectations? 

Ah,  I  am  sad  along  with  thee,  thou  dusky  monster,  and 
angry  with  myself  even  for  thy  sake. 

Ah,  that  my  hand  hath  not  strength  enough!  Gladly, 
indeed,  would  I  free  thee  from  evil  dreams! — 

And  while  Zarathustra  thus  spake,  he  laughed  at  himself 
with  melancholy  and  bitterness.  What!  Zarathustra,  said 
he,  wilt  thou  even  sing  consolation  to  the  sea? 

Ah,  thou  amiable  fool,  Zarathustra,  thou  too-blindly  con- 
fiding one!  But  thus  hast  thou  ever  been:  ever  hast  thou 
approached  confidently  all  that  is  terrible. 

Every  monster  wouldst  thou  caress.  A  whiff  of  warm 
breath,  a  little  soft  tuft  on  its  paw — :  and  immediately  wert 
thou  ready  to  love  and  lure  it. 

Love  is  the  danger  of  the  lonesomest  one,  love  to  any- 
thing, ij  it  only  live  I  Laughable,  verily,  is  my  folly  and  my 
modesty  in  love! — 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra,  and  laughed  thereby  a  second 


\' 


\ 


164 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  III 


time.  Then,  however,  he  thought  of  his  abandoned  friends 
— and  as  if  he  had  done  them  a  wrong  with  his  thoughts,  he 
upbraided  himself  because  of  his  thoughts.  And  forthwith 
it  came  to  pass  that  the  laugher  wept — with  anger  and 
longing  wept  Zarathustra  bitterly. 


XLVI.— THE   VISION  AND   THE   ENIGMA 

1. 

When  it  got  abroad  among  the  sailors  that  Zarathustra 
was  on  board  the  ship — for  a  man  who  came  from  the 
Happy  Isles  had  gone  on  board  along  with  him, — there  was 
great  curiosity  and  expectation.  But  Zarathustra  kept  silent 
for  two  days,  and  was  cold  and  deaf  with  sadness;  so  that 
he  neither  answered  looks  nor  questions.  On  the  evening  of 
the  second  day,  however,  he  again  opened  his  ears,  though 
he  still  kept  silent:  for  there  were  many  curious  and  dan- 
gerous things  to  be  heard  on  board  the  ship,  which  came 
from  afar,  and  was  to  go  still  further.  Zarathustra,  how- 
ever, was  fond  of  all  those  who  make  distant  voyages,  and 
dislike  to  live  without  danger.  And  behold !  when  listening, 
his  own  tongue  was  at  last  loosened,  and  the  ice  of  his  heart 
broke.    Then  did  he  begin  to  speak  thus: 

To  you,  the  daring  venturers  and  adventurers,  and  who- 
ever hath  embarked  with  cunning  sails  upon  frightful 
seas, — 

To  you  the  enigma-intoxicated,  the  twilight-en joyers, 
whose  souls  are  allured  by  flutes  to  every  treacherous  gulf: 

— For  ye  dislike  to  grope  at  a  thread  with  cowardly  hand; 
and  where  ye  can  divine,  there  do  ye  hate  to  calculate — 

To  you  only  do  I  tell  the  enigma  that  I  saw — the  vision 
of  the  lonesomest  one. — 

Gloomily  walked  I  lately  in  corpse-coloured  twilight — 
gloomily  and  sternly,  with  compressed  lips.  Not  only  one 
sun  had  set  for  me. 

A  path  which  ascended  daringly  among  boulders,  an  evil, 
lonesome  path,  which  neither  herb  nor  shrub  any  longer 


XLVI— THE  VISION  AND  THE  ENIGMA      165    \ 

cheered,  a  mountain-path,  crunched  under  the  daring  of 

my  foot. 
Mutely  marching  over  the  scornful  clinking  of  pebbles, 

trampling  the  stone  that  let  it  slip:  thus  did  my  foot  force 

its  way  upwards. 

Upwards:— in  spite  of  the  spirit  that  drew  it  down- 
wards, towards  the  abyss,  the  spirit  of  gravity,  my  devil 
and  arch-enemy. 

Upwards:— although  it  sat  upon  me,  half -dwarf,  half- 
mole;  paralysed,  paralysing;  dripping  lead  in  mine  ear,  and 
thoughts  like  drops  of  lead  into  my  brain. 

^^0  Zarathustra,"  it  whispered  scornfully,  syllable  by 
syllable,  "thou  stone  of  wisdom!  Thou  threwest  thyself 
high,  but  every  thrown  stone  must — fall! 

0  Zarathustra,  thou  stone  of  wisdom,  thou  sling-stone, 
thou  star-destroyer!  Thyself  threwest  thou  so  high,— but 
every  thrown  stone — must  fall! 

Condemned  of  thyself,  and  to  thine  own  stoning:  O  Zara- 
thustra, far  indeed  threwest  thou  thy  stone— but  upon 
thyself  will  it  recoil!" 

Then  was  the  dwarf  silent;  and  it  lasted  long.  The 
silence,  however,  oppressed  me;  and  to  be  thus  in  pairs,  one 
is  verily  lonesomer  than  when  alone! 

1  ascended,  I  ascended,  I  dreamt,  I  thought,— but  every- 
thing  oppressed  me.  A  sick  one  did  I  resemble,  whom  bad 
torture  wearieth,  and  a  worse  dream  reawakeneth  out  of 

his  first  sleep. — 

But  there  is  something  in  me  which  I  call  courage:  it 
hath  hitherto  slain  for  me  every  dejection.  This  courage 
at  last  bade  me  stand  still  and  say:     "Dwarf!     Thou! 

Orl!"— 

For  courage  is  the  best  slayer,— courage  which  attacketh: 
for  in  every  attack  there  is  sound  of  triumph. 

Man,  however,  is  the  most  courageous  animal:  thereby 
hath  he  overcome  every  animal.  With  sound  of  triumph 
hath  he  overcome  every  pain;  human  pain,  however,  is  the 

sorest  pain. 

Courage  slayeth  also  giddiness  at  abysses:  and  where 
doth  man  not  stand  at  abysses!  Is  not  seeing  itself— seeing 
abysses? 


i66  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  III 

Courage  is  the  best  slayer:  courage  slayeth  also  fellow- 
suffering.  Fellow-suffering,  however,  is  the  deepest  abyss: 
as  deeply  as  man  looketh  into  life,  so  deeply  also  doth  he 
look  into  suffering. 

Courage,  however,  is  the 'best  slayer,  courage  which  at- 
tacketh:  it  slayeth  even  death  itself;  for  it  saith:  ''Was 
that  Hie?    Well!     Once  more!'' 

In  such  speech,  however,  there  is  much  sound  of  triumph. 
He  who  hath  ears  to  hear,  let  him  hear. — 

"Halt,  dwarf!"  said  I.  "Either  I— or  thou!  I,  however, 
am  the  stronger  of  the  two — :  thou  knowest  not  mine  abys- 
mal thought!     It — couldst  thou  not  endure!" 

Then  happened  that  which  made  me  lighter:  for  the 
dwarf  sprang  from  my  shoulder,  the  prying  sprite!  And  it 
squatted  on  ä  stone  in  front  of  me.  There  was  however  a 
gateway  just  where  we  halted. 

"Look  at  this  gateway!  Dwarf!"  I  continued,  "it  hath 
two  faces.  Two  roads  come  together  here:  these  hath  no 
one  yet  gone  to  the  end  of. 

This  long  lane  backwards:  it  continueth  for  an  eternity. 
And  that  long  lane,  forward — that  is  another  eternity. 

They  are  antithetical  to  one  another,  these  roads;  they 
directly  abut  on  one  another: — and  it  is  here,  at  this  gate- 
way, that  they  come  together.  The  name  of  the  gateway  is 
inscribed  above:     'This  Moment.' 

But  should  one  follow  them  further — and  ever  further 
and  further  on,  thinkest  thou,  dwarf,  that  these  roads  would 
')e  eternally  antithetical?" — 

"Everything  straight  lieth,"  murmured  the  dwarf,  con- 
temptuously.   "All  truth  is  crooked ;  time  itself  is  a  circle." 

"Thou  spirit  of  gravity!"  said  I- wrathf ully,  "do  not  take 
it  too  lightly!  Or  I  shall  let  thee  squat  where  thou  squat- 
test, Haltfoot, — and  I  carried  thee  high!' 

"Observe,"  continued  I,  "This  Moment!  From  the  gate- 
way. This  Moment,  there  runneth  a  long  eternal  lane  back- 
wards: behind  us  lieth  an  eternity. 

Must  not  whatever  can  run  its  course  of  all  things,  have 


XLVI— THE  VISION  AND  THE  ENIGMA      167      . 

already  run  along  that  lane?    Must  not  whatever  can  hap- 
pen of  all  things  have  already  happened,  resulted,  and 

gone  by?  •  , 

And  if  everything  have  already  existed,  what  thinkest 
thou,  dwarf,  of  This  Moment?  Must  not  this  gateway  also 
—have  already  existed? 

And  are  not  all  things  closely  bound  together  in  such  wise 
that  This  Moment  draweth  all  coming  things  after  it? 
Consequently itself  also? 

For  whatever  can  run  its  course  of  all  things,  also  in  this 
long  lane  outward — must  it  once  more  run!  — 

And  this  slow  spider  which  creepeth  in  the  moonlight, 
and  this  moonlight  itself,  and  thou  and  I  in  this  gateway 
whispering  together,  whispering  of  eternal  things — must  we 
not  all  have  already  existed? 

— And  must  we  not  return  and  run  in  that  other  lane     \ 
out  before  us,  that  long  weird  lane — must  we  not  eternally  /  j 

return?" — 

Thus  did  I  speak,  and  always  more  softly:  for  I  was 
^  afraid  of  mine  own  thoughts,  and  arrear-thoughts.  Then, 
"   suddenly  did  I  hear  a  dog  howl  near  me. 

Had  I  ever  heard  a  dog  howl  thus?  My  thoughts  ran 
back.  Yes!  When  I  was  a  child,  in  my  most  distant  child- 
hood: 

—Then  did  I  hear  a  dog  howl  thus.  And  saw  it  also,  with 
hair  bristling,  its  head  upwards,  trembling  in  the  stillest 
midnight,  when  even  dogs  believe  in  ghosts: 

— So  that  it  excited  my  commiseration.  For  just  then 
went  the  full  moon,  silent  as  death,  over  the  house;  just 
then  did  it  stand  still,  a  glowing  globe— at  rest  on  the  flat 
roof,  as  if  on  some  one's  property: — 

Thereby  had  the  dog  been  terrified:  for  dogs  believe  in 
thieves  and  ghosts.  And  when  I  again  heard  such  howling, 
then  did  it  excite  my  commiseration  once  more. 

Where  was  now  the  dwarf?  And  the  gateway?  And  the 
spider?  And  all  the  whispering?  Had  I  dreamt?  Had  I 
awakened?  'Twist  rugged  rocks  did  I  suddenly  stand  alone, 
dreary  in  the  dreariest  moonlight. 

But  there  lay  a  man!  And  there!  The  dog  leaping, 
bristling,  whining — now  did  it  see  me  coming — then  did  it 


i68  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  III 

howl  again,  then  did  it  cry:— had  I  ever  heard  a  dog  cry 
so  for  help?  ^ 

And  verily,  what  I  saw,  the  like  had  I  never  seen.  A 
young  shepherd  did  I  see,  writhing,  choking,  quivering, 
with  distorted  countenance,  and  with  a  heavy  black  serpent 
hanging  out  of  his  mouth. 

Had  I  ever  seen  so  much  loathing  and  pale  horror  on  one 
countenance?  He  had  perhaps  gone  to  sleep?  Then  had 
the  serpent  crawled  into  his  throat — there  had  it  bitten 
itself  fast. 

My  hand  pulled  at  the  serpent,  and  pulled:— in  vain!  I 
failed  to  pull  the  serpent  out  of  his  throat.  Then  there 
cried  out  of  me:    "Bite!     Bite! 

Its  head  off!  Bite!" — so  cried  it  out  of  me;  my  horror, 
my  hatred,  my  loathing,  my  pity,  all  my  good  and  my  bad 
cried  with  one  voice  out  of  me. — 

Ye  daring  ones  around  me!  Ye  venturers  and  adven- 
turers, and  whoever  of  you  have  embarked  with  cunning 
sails  on  unexplored  seas!    Ye  enigma-enjoyers! 

Solve  unto  me  the  enigma  that  I  then  beheld,  interpret 
unto  me  the  vision  of  the  lonesomest  one! 

For  it  was  a  vision  and  a  foresight: — what  did  I  then  be- 
hold in  parable?    And  who  is  it  that  must  come  some  day? 

Who  is  the  shepherd  into  whose  throat  the  serpent  thus 
crawled?  Who  is  the  man  into  whose  throat  all  the  heaviest 
and  blackest  will  thus  crawl? 

^  — The  shepherd  however  bit  as  my  cry  had  admonished 
him;  he  bit  with  a  strong  bite!  Far  away  did  he  spit  the 
head  of  the  serpent — :  and  sprang  up. — 

No  longer  shepherd,  no  longer  man— a  transfigured  being, 
a  light-surrounded  being,  that  laughed!  Never  on  earth 
laughed  a  man  as  he  laughed ! 

O  my  brethren,  I  heard  a  laughter  which  w^as  no  human 

laughter, and  now  gnaweth  a  thirst  at  me,  a  longing 

that  is  never  allayed. 

My  longing  for  that  laughter  gnaweth  at  me:  oh,  how 
can  I  still  endure  to  live!  And  how  could  I  endure  to  die 
at  present! — 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


XLVII— INVOLUNTARY  BLISS 


XLVII.— INVOLUNTARY   BLISS 


169 


With  such  enigmas  and  bitterness  in  his  heart  did  Zara- 
thustra sail  o'er  the  sea.  When,  however,  he  was  four  day- 
journeys  from  the  Happy  Isles  and  from  his  friends,  then 
had  he  surmounted  all  his  pain—:  triumphantly  and  with 
firm  foot  did  he  again  accept  his  fate.  And  then  talked 
Zarathustra  in  this  wise  to  his  exulting  conscience: 

Alone  am  I  again,  and  like  to  be  so,  alone  with  the  pure 
heaven,  and  the  open  sea;  and  again  is  the  afternoon  around 

me.  I.      1     i- 

On  an  afternoon  did  I  find  my  friends  for  the  first  time; 

on  an  afternoon,  also,  did  I  find  them  a  second  time:— at 

the  hour  when  all  light  becometh  stiller. 

For  whatever  happiness  is  still  on  its  way  'twixt  heaven 
and  earth,  now  seeketh  for  lodging  a  luminous  soul:  with 
happiness  hath  all  light  now  become  stiller. 

O  afternoon  of  my  life!  Once  did  my  happiness  also 
descend  to  the  valley  that  it  might  seek  a  lodging:  then  did 
it  find  those  open  hospitable  souls. 

0  afternoon  of  my  life!  What  did  I  not  surrender  that 
I  might  have  one  thing:  this  living  plantation  of  my 
thoughts,  and  this  dawn  of  my  highest  hope! 

Companions  did  the  creating  one  once  seek,  and  children 
of  his  hope:  and  lo,  it  turned  out  that  he  could  not  find 
them,  except  he  himself  should  first  create  them. 

Thus  am  I  in  the  midst  of  my  work,  to  my  children  going, 
and  from  them  returning:  for  the  sake  of  his  children  must 
Zarathustra  perfect  himself.  ^ 

For  in  one's  heart  one  loveth  only  one's  child  and  one  s 
work ;  and  where  there  is  great  love  to  oneself,  then  is  it  the 
sign  of  pregnancy:  so  have  I  found  it. 

Still  are  my  children  verdant  in  their  first  spring,  stand- 
ing nigh  one  another,  and  shaken  in  comnion  by  the  winds, 
the  trees  of  my  garden  and  of  my  best  soil. 

And  verily,  where  such  trees  stand  beside  one  another, 

there  are  Happy  Isles!  ,   1      •     ir 

But  one  day  will  I  take  them  up,  and  put  each  by  itself 


170  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  III 

alone:   that  it  may  learn  lonesomeness  and  defiance  and 
prudence. 

Gnarled  and  crooked  and  with  flexible  hardness  shall  it 
then  stand  by  the  sea,  a  living  lighthouse  of  unconquerable 

Yonder  where  the  storms  rush  down  into  the  sea,  and 
the  snout  of  the  mountain  drinketh  water,  shall  each 'on  a 
time  have  his  day  and  night  watches,  for  his  testing  and 
recognition. 

Recognised  and  tested  shall  each  be,  to  see  if  he  be  of 
my  type  and  lineage:— if  he  be  master  of  a  long  will,  silent 
even  when  he  speaketh,  and  giving  in  such  wise  that  he 
taketh  in  giving: — 

— So  that  he  may  one  day  become  my  companion,  a  fel- 
low-creator and  fellow-enjoyer  with  Zarathustra:— such  a 
one  as  writeth  my  will  on  my  tables,  for  the  fuller  perfection 
of  all  things. 

And  for  his  sake  and  for  those  like  him,  must  I  perfect 
myself:  therefore  do  I  now  avoid  my  happiness,  and  present 
myself  to  every  misfortune— for  my  final  testing  and  recog- 
nition. ^ 

And  verily,  it  were  time  that  I  went  away;  and  the 
wanderer's  shadow  and  the  longest  tedium  and  the  stillest 
hour— have  all  said  unto  me:  "It  is  the  highest  timeP' 
^  The  word  blew  to  me  through  the  keyhole  and  said 
Cornel"  The  door  sprang  subtlely  open  unto  me,  and 
said  "Go  1^' 

But  I  lay  enchained  to  my  love  for  my  children:  desire 
spread  this  snare  for  me— the  desire  for  love— that  I  should 
become  the  prey  of  my  children,  and  lose  myself  in  them. 

Desiring— that  is  now  for  me  to  have  lost  myself.  / 
possess  you,  my  children  t  In  this  possessing  shall  every- 
thing be  assurance  and  nothing  desire. 
^  But  brooding  lay  the  sun  of  my  love  upon  me,  in  his  own 
juice  stewed  Zarathustra,— then  did  shadows  and  doubts 
fly  past  me. 

For  frost  and  winter  I  now  longed:  "Oh,  that  frost  and 
winter  would  again  make  me  crack  and  crunch!"  sighed  I: 
— then  arose  icy  mist  out  of  me. 

My  past  burst  its  tomb,  many  pains  buried  alive  woke 


XLVII— INVOLUNTARY  BLISS 


17V 


V 


up—:  fully  slept  had  they  merely,  concealed  in  corpse- 
clothes.  ,      .  ,,T^  ...      ,„ 

So  called  everything  unto  me  m  signs:     'It  is  üme! 
But  I— heard  not,  until  at  last  mine  abyss  moved,  and  my 

thought  bit  me. 

Ah  abysmal  thought,  which  art  my  thought!  When 
shall  I  find  strength  to  hear  thee  burrowing,  and  no  longer 

To  my  very  throat  throbbeth  my  heart  when  I  hear  thee 
burrowing  1      Thy   muteness  even  is  like  to  strangle  me, 

thou  abysmal  mute  one!  .  ,     ,  l 

As  yet  have  I  never  ventured  to  call  thee  up;  it  hath  been 
enough  that  I— have  carried  thee  about  with  mel  As  yet 
have  I  not  been  strong  enough  for  my  final  lion-wantonness 

and  playfulness.  ,    ,     ,  .  ,  ^ 

t«  Sufficiently    formidable   unto  me  hath  thy  weight  ever 

been:  but  one  day  shall  I  yet  find  the  strength  and  the  lion  s 

voice  which  will  call  thee  up!  „  ^     .     .,         .„ 

When  I  shall  have  surmounted  myself  therein,  then  will 

I  surmount  myself  also  in  that  which  is  greater;  and  » 

victory  shall  be  the  seal  of  my  perfection! — 

Meanwhile  do  I  sail  along  on  uncertain  seas;   chance 

M       flattereth  me,  smooth-tongued  chance;  forward  and  back- 

I       ward  do  I  gaze—,  still  see  I  no  end. 

As  yet  hath  the  hour  of  my  final  struggle  not  come  to  me 

—or  doth  it  come  to  me  perhaps  just  now?     Verily   with 

i       insidious  beauty  do  sea  and  life  gaze  upon  me  round  about: 

O  afternoon  of  my  life!    O  happiness  before  eventide!    O 

haven  upon  high  seas!     O  peace  in  uncertainty!     How  I 

distrust  all  of  you !  ,  ,    t  -i 

Verily,  distrustful  am  I  of  your  insidious  beauty!    U&t 

the  lover  am  I,  who  distrusteth  too  sleek  smiling. 
As  he  pusheth  the  best-beloved  before  him— tender  even 

in  severity,  the  jealous  one—,  so  do  I  push  this  blissful 

hour  before  me.  r.  1     1.      i.  i.^. 

Away  with  thee,  thou  blissful  hour!     With  thee  hath 

there  come  to  me  an  involuntary  bliss!     Ready  for  my 

severest  pain  do  I  here  stand:— at  the  wrong  time  hast 

thou  come!  ,       ,     , 

Away  with  thee,  thou  blissful  hour!     Rather  harbour 


17«  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  III 

'there— with  my  children!     Hasten!  and  bless  them  before 
eventide  with  my  happiness! 

There,  already  approacheth  eventide:  the  sun  sinketh. 
Away — ^my  happiness! — 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra.  And  he  waited  for  his  misfor^ 
tune  the  whole  night;  but  he  waited  in  vain.  The  night 
remained  clear  and  calm,  and  happiness  itself  came  nigher 
and  nigher  unto  him.  Towards  morning,  however,  Zara- 
thustra laughed  to  his  heart,  and  said  mockingly:  "Happi- 
ness runneth  after  me.  That  is  because  I  do  not  run  after 
women.    Happiness,  however,  is  a  woman." 


XLVin— BEFORE  SUNRISE 


>' 


XLVIII.— BEFORE   SUNRISE 

0  heaven  above  me,  thou  pure,  thou  deep  heaven !  Thou 
abyss  of  light!  Gazing  on  thee,  I  tremble  with  divine 
desires. 

Up  to  thy  height  to  toss  myself — that  is  my  depth!  In 
thy  purity  to  hide  myself — that  is  mine  innocence! 

The  God  veileth  his  beauty:  thus  hidest  thou  thy  stars. 
Thou  speakest  nqt:  thus  proclaimest  thou  thy  wisdom 
unto  me. 

Mute  o'er  the  raging  sea  hast  thou  risen  for  me  to-day; 
thy  love  and  thy  modesty  make  a  revelation  unto  my  raging 
soul. 

In  that  thou  camest  unto  me  beautiful,  veiled  in  thy 
beauty,  in  that  thou  spakest  unto  me  mutely,  obvious  in  thy 
wisdom : 

Oh,  how  could  I  fail  to  divine  all  the  modesty  of  thy  soul! 
Before  the  sun  didst  thou  come  unto  me — the  lonesomest 
one. 

We  have  been  friends  from  the  beginning:  to  us  are 
grief,  gruesomeness,  and  ground  common;  even  the  sun  is 
common  to  us. 

We  do  not  speak  to  each  other,  because  we  know  too 
much — :  we  keep  silent  to  each  other,  we  smile  our  knowl- 
edge to  each  other. 


Art  thou  not  the  light  of  my  fire?  Hast  thou  not  the 
sister-soul  of  mine  insight? 

Together  did  we  learn  everything;  together  did  we  learn 
to  ascend  beyond  ourselves  to  ourselves,  and  to  smile  un- 

cloudedly:—  ^  ,      .  a 

— Uncloudedly  to  smile  down  out  of  lummous  eyes  and 
out  of  miles  of  distance,  when  under  us  constraint  and 
purpose  and  guilt  steam  like  rain. 

And  wandered  I  alone,  for  what  did  my  soul  hunger 
by  night  and  in  labyrinthine  paths?  And  climbed  I 
mountains,  whom  did  I  ever  seek,  if  not  thee,  upon  moun- 
tains? .      ,.    ,  . 

And  all  my  wandering  and  mountam-climbmg:  a  neces- 
sity was  it  merely,  and  a  makeshift  of  the  unhandy  one:— 
to  fly  only,  wanteth  mine  entire  will,  to  fly  into  thee! 

And  what  have  I  hated  more  than  passing  clouds,  and 
whatever  tainteth  thee?  And  mine  own  hatred  have  I 
even  hated,  because  it  tainted  thee! 

The  passing  clouds  I  detest— those  stealthy  cats  of  prey: 
they  take  from  thee  and  me  what  is  common  to  us— the 
vast  unbounded  Yea-  and  Amen-saying. 

These  mediators  and  mixers  we  detest— the  passmg 
clouds:  those  half-and-half  ones,  that  have  neither  learned 
to  bless  nor  to  curse  from  the  heart. 

Rather  will  I  sit  in  a  tub  under  a  closed  heaven,  rather 
will  I  sit  in  the  abyss  without  heaven,  than  see  thee,  thou 
luminous  heaven,  tainted  with  passing  clouds!  ^ 

And  oft  have  I  longed  to  pin  them  fast  with  the  jagged 
gold-wires  of  lightning,  that  I  might,  like  the  thunder, 
beat  the  drum  upon  their  kettle-bellies:— 

—An  angry  drummer,  because  they  rob  me  of  thy  Yea 
and  Amen!— thou  heaven  above  me,  thou  pure,  thou  lumi- 
nous heaven!  Thou  abyss  of ,  light ! —because  they  rob 
thee  of  my  Yea  and  Amen. 

For  rather  will  I  have  noise  and  thunders  and  tempest- 
blasts,  than  this  discreet,  doubting  cat-repose;  and  also 
amongst  men  do  I  hate  most  of  all  the  soft-treaders,  and 
half-and-half  ones,  and  the  doubting,  hesitating,  passing 

clouds.  ,  „     ., . 

'And  "he  who  cannot  bless  shall  learn  to  curse  I  — tnis 


^74  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  III 

clear  teaching  dropt  unto  me  from  the  clear  heaven;  this 
star  standeth  in  my  heaven  even  in  dark  nights. 

I,  however,  am  a  blesser  and  a  Yea-sayer,  if  thou  be  but 
around  me,  thou  pure,  thou  luminous  heaven!  Thou  abyss 
of  light! — into  all  abysses  do  I  then  carry  my  beneficent 
Yea-saying. 

A  blesser  have  I  become  and  a  Yea-sayer:  and  therefore 
strove  I  long  and  was  a  striver,  that  I  might  one  day  get 
my  hands  free  for  blessing. 

This,  however,  is  my  blessing:  to  stand  above  every- 
thing as  its  own  heaven,  its  round  roof,  its  azure  bell 
and  eternal  security:  and  blessed  is  he  who  thus 
blesseth! 

For  all  things  are  baptized  at  the  font  of  eternity,  and 
beyond  good  and  evil;  good  and  evil  themselves,  however, 
are  but  fugitive  shadows  and  damp  afflictions  and  passing 
clouds. 

Verily,  it  is  a  blessing  and  not  a  blasphemy  when  I  teach 
that  "above  all  things  there  standeth  the  heaven  of  chance, 
the  heaven  of  innocence,  the  heaven  of  hazard,  the  heaven 
of  wantonness." 

"Of  Hazard" — that  is  the  oldest  nobility  in  the  world; 
that  gave  I  back  to  all  things;  I  emancipated  them  from 
bondage  under  purpose. 

This  freedom  and  celestial  serenity  did  I  put  like  an 
azure  bell  above  all  things,  when  I  taught  that  over  them 
and  through  them,  no  "eternal  Will" — willeth. 

This  wantonness  and  folly  did  I  put  in  place  of  that 
Will,  when  I  taught  that  "In  everything  there  is  one  thing 
impossible — rationality!" 

A  little  reason,  to  be  sure,  a  germ  of  wisdom  scattered 
from  star  to  star — this  leaven  is  mixed  in  all  things:  for 
the  sake  of  folly,  wisdom  is  mixed  in  all  things! 

A  little  wisdom  is  indeed  possible;  but  this  blessed  se- 
curity have  I  found  in  all  things,  that  they  prefer — to  dance 
on  the  feet  of  chance. 

O  heaven  above  me!  thou  pure,  thou  lofty  heaven! 
This  is  now  thy  purity  unto  me,  that  there  is  no  eternal 
reason-spider  and  reason-cobweb: — 

— ^That  thou  art  to  me  a  dancing-floor  for  divine  chances, 


XLIX— THE  BEDWARFING  VIRTUE         17S 

that  thou  art  to  me  a  table  of  the  Gods,  for  divine  dice 

and  dice-players!—  ,    ui    ^u-      o 

But  thou  blushest?    Have  I  spoken  unspeakable  things? 

Have  I  abused,  when  I  meant  to  bless  thee? 

Or  is  it  the  shame  of  being  two  of  us  that  maketh  thee 
blush!— Dost  thou  bid  me  go  and  be  silent,  because  now— 

day  cometh?  ,      ,     j  u 

The  world  is  deep—:  and  deeper  than  e'er  the  day  could 

read.    Not  everything  may  be  uttered  in  presence  of  day. 

But  day  cometh:  so  let  us  part!  ^ 

O  heaven  above  me,  thou  modest  one!    thou  glowing 

one!     O  thou,  my  happiness  before  sunrise  I     The  day 

cometh:  so  let  us  part!— 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 

XLIX.— THE  BEDWARFING  VIRTUE 

I. 

When  Zarathustra  was  again  on  the  continent,  he  did 
not  go  straightway  to  his  mountains  and  his  cave,  but  made 
many  wanderings  and  questionings,  and  ascertained  this 
and  that;  so  that  he  said  of  himself  jestingly:  "Lo,  a  river 
that  floweth  back  unto  its  source  in  many  windings!  l^or 
he  wanted  to  learn  what  had  taken  place  among  men  dur- 
ing  the  interval:  whether  they  had  become  greater  or 
smaller.     And  once,  when  he  saw  a  row  of  new  houses, 

he  marvelled,  and  said:  ^  ^       i      ♦ 

"What  do  these  houses  mean?    Verily,  no  great  soul  put 

them  up  as  its  simile!  1»  .^    x 

Did  perhaps  a  silly  child  take  them  out  of  its  toy- 
box?    Would  that  another  child  put  them  again  into  the 

box!  .        , 

And  these  rooms  and  chambers— can  men  go  out  and 

in  there?     They  seem  to  be  made  for  silk  dolls;  or^  for 

dainty-eaters,  who  perhaps  let  others  eat  with  them. 
And  Zarathustra  stood  still  and  meditated.    At  last  he 

said  sorrowfully:  "There  hath  everything  become  smaller  I 


176  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  Iir 


■  Jr^-*- 


I      Everywhere  do  I  see  lower  doorways:  he  who  is  of  my 
^-type  can  still  go  therethrough,  but — he  must  stoop! 

Oh,  when  shall  I  arrive  again  at  my  home,  where  I  shall 
no  longer  have  to  stoop — shall  no  longer  have  to  stoop 
before  the  small  onesT — ^And  Zarathustra  sighed,  and 
gazed  into  the  distance. — 

The  same  day,  however,  he  gave  his  discourse  on  the 
bedwarfing  virtue. 

2. 

I  pass  through  this  people  and  keep  mine  eyes  open: 
they  do  not  forgive  me  for  not  envying  their  virtues. 

They  bite  at  me,  because  I  say  unto  them  that  for  small 
people,  small  virtues  are  necessary — and  because  it  is  hard 
for  me  to  understand  that  small  people  are  necessary  I 

Here  am  I  still  like  a  cock  in  a  strange  farm-yard,  at 
which  even  the  hens  peck:  but  on  that  account  I  am  not 
unfriendly  to  the  hens. 

I  am  courteous  towards  them,  as  towards  all  small  an- 
noyances; to  be  prickly  towards  what  is  small,  seemeth 
to  me  wisdom  for  hedgehogs. 

They  all  speak  of  me  when  they  sit  around  their  fire 
in  the  evening — they  speak  of  me,  but  no  one  thinketh — 
of  me! 

This  is  the  new  stillness  which  I  have  experienced: 
their  noise  around  me  spreadeth  a  mantle  over  my 
thoughts. 

They  shout  to  one  another:  "What  is  this  gloomy  cloud 
about  to  do  to  us?  Let  us  see  that  it  doth  not  bring  a 
plague  upon  us!" 

And  recently  did  a  woman  seize  upon  her  child  that 
was  coming  unto  me:  "Take  the  children  away,"  cried  she, 
"such  eyes  scorch  children's  souls." 

They  cough  when  I  speak:  they  think  coughing  an  ob- 
jection to  strong  winds — they  divine  nothing  of  the  boister- 
ousness  of  my  happiness! 

"We  have  not  yet  time  for  Zarathustra" — so  they  object; 
but  what  matter  about  a  time  that  "hath  no  time"  for 
Zarathustra? 


XLIX— THE  BEDWARFING  VIRTUE         i77 

And  if  they  should  altogether  praise  me,  how  could  I 
go  to  sleep  on  their  praise?  A  girdle  of  spines  is  their 
praise  unto  me:  it  scratcheth  me  even  when  I  take  it  off. 

And  this  also  did  I  learn  among  them:  the  praiser  doeth 
as  if  he  gave  back;  in  truth,  however,  he  wanteth  more  to 

be  given  himl  ,    .  .        , 

Ask  my  foot  if  their  lauding  and  lunng  strains  please 

it!    Verily,  to  such  measure  and  ticktack,  it  liketh  neither 

to  dance  nor  to  stand  still. 
To  small  virtues  would  they  fain  lure  and  laud  me;  to 

the  ticktack  of  small  happiness  would  they  fain  persuade 

my  foot. 

I  pass  through  this  people  and  keep  mine  eyes  open: 
they  have  become  smaller,  and  ever  become  smaller:— ^ Aß 
reason  thereof  is  their  doctrine  of  happiness  and  virtue. 

For  they  are  moderate  also  in  virtue,— because  they  want 
comfort.    With  comfort,  however,  moderate  virtue  only  is 

compatible.  ^   ,  ^      ^  . , 

To  be  sure,  they  also  learn  m  their  way  to  stride  on 

and  stride  forward:  that,  I  call  their  Aö ft öK«g.— Thereby 

they  become  a  hindrance  to  all  who  are  in  haste. 
And  many  of  them  go  forward,  and  look  backwards 

thereby,  with  stiffened  necks:   those  do  I  like  to  run  up 

against.  ^     ,.  -.     ^i. 

Foot  and  eye  shall  not  lie,  nor  give  the  lie  to  each  other. 
But  there  is  much  lying  among  small  people. 

Some  of  them  will,  but  most  of  them  are  wüled.  Some 
of  them  are  genuine,  but  most  of  them  are  bad  actors. 

There  are  actors  without  knowing  it  amongst  them, 
and  actors  without  intending  it—,  the  genuine  ^ones  are 
always  rare,  especially  the  genuine  actors.  ^ 

Of  man  there  is  little  here:  therefore  do  their  women 
masculinise  themselves.  For  only  he  who  is  man  enough, 
will — save  the  woman  in  woman. 

And  this  hypocrisy  found  I  worst  amongst  them,  that 
even  those  who  command  feign  the  virtues  of  those  who 

serve. 

"I  serve,  thou  servest,  we  serve"— so  chanteth  here  even 
the  hypocrisy  of  the  rulers— and  alas!  if  the  first  lord  be 
only  the  first  servant! 


178  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  III 

Ah,  even  upon  their  hypocrisy  did  mine  eyes'  curiosity 
ahght;  and  well  did  I  divine  all  their  fly-happiness,  and 
their  buzzing  around  sunny  window-panes. 

So  much  kindness,  so  much  weakness  do  I  see.  So  much 
justice  and  pity,  so  much  weakness. 

Round,  fair,  and  considerate  are  they  to  one  another,  as 
grains  of  sand  are  round,  fair,  and  considerate  to  erains 
of  sand. 

Modestly  to  embrace  a  small  happiness— that  do  they 
call  "submission"!  and  at  the  same  time  they  peer  mod- 
estly after  a  new  small  happiness. 

In  their  hearts  they  want  simply  one  thing  most  of 
all:  that  no  one  hurt  them.  Thus  do  they  anticipate  every 
one's  wishes  and  do  well  unto  every  one. 

That,  however,  is  cowardice,  though  it  be  called 
"virtue." — 

And  when  they  chance  to  speak  harshly,  those  small 
people,  then  do  /  hear  therein  only  their  hoarseness — every 
draught  of  air  maketh  them  hoarse. 

Shrewd  indeed  are  they,  their  virtues  have  shrewd  fin- 
gers. But  they  lack  fists:  their  fingers  do  not  know  how 
to  creep  behind  fists. 

Virtue  for  them  is  what  maketh  modest  and  tame: 
therewith  have  they  made  the  wolf  a  dog,  and  man  him- 
self man's  best  domestic  animal. 

"We  set  our  chair  in  the  midst''— ^  saith  their  smirking 
unto  me— "and  as  far  from  dying  gladiators  as  from  satis- 
fied swine." 

That,  however,  is— mediocrity,  though  it  be  called 
moderation. — 


I  pass  through  this  people  and  let  fall  many  words:  but 
they  know  neither  how  to  take  nor  how  to  retain  them. 

They  wonder  why  I  came  not  to  revile  venery  and  vice; 
and  verily,  I  came  not  to  warn  against  pickpockets  either  I 

They  wonder  why  I  am  not  ready  to  abet  and  whet 
their  wisdom:  as  if  they  had  not  yet  enough  of  wiseacres, 
whose  voices  grate  on  mine  ear  like  slate-penfcilsl 


XLIX— THE  BEDWARFING  VIRTUE         i79 

And  when  I  call  out:  "Curse  all  the  cowardly  devils  in 
vou  that  would  fain  whimper  and  fold  the  hands  and 
Lore"— then  do  they  shout:  "Zarathustra  is  godless." 

And  especially  do  their  teachers  of  submission  shout  this; 
—but  precisely  in  their  ears  do  I  love  to  cry:  "Yea!  I  am 

Zarathustra,  the  godless!"  ,.       .         i,^ 

Those  teachers  of  submission!  Wherever  there  is  aught 
puny  or  sickly,  or  scabby,  there  do  they  creep  like  lice; 
and  only  my  disgust  preventeth  me  from  cracking  them. 

Weir  This  is  my  sermon  for  their  ears:  I  am  Zara- 
thustra'the  godless,  who  saith:  "Who  is  more  godless  than 
I,  that  I  may  enjoy  his  teaching?"  ,     ^   .    .      • 

I  am  Zarathustra  the  godless:  where  do  I  find  mine 
equal?  And  all  those  are  mine  equals  who  give  unto  them- 
selves their  Will,  and  divest  themselves  of  all  submission. 

I  am  Zarathustra  the  godless !  I  cook  every  chance  m  my 
pot.  And  only  when  it  hath  been  quite  cooked  do  I  wel- 
come it  as  my  food.  ^         .      i       ^*^  ^^. 

And  verily,  many  a  chance  came  imperiously  unto  me. 
but  still  more  imperiously  did  my  WiU  speak  unto  it,— 
then  did  it  lie  imploringly  upon  its  knees—   ^  ^      ^      . - 

—Imploring  that  it  might  find  home  and  heart  with 
me,  and  saying  flatteringly:  "See,  O  Zarathustra,  how  fnend 

only  Cometh  unto  friend!" —  ,  ,     k  a  .^ 

But  why  talk  I,  when  no  one  hath  mme  ears!  Anü  so 
will  I  shout  it  out  unto  all  the  winds: 

Ye  ever  become  smaller,  ye  small  people!  Ye  crumble 
away,  ye  comfortable  ones!     Ye  will  yet  perish— 

—By  your  many  small  virtues,  by  your  many  smaU 
omissions,  and  by  your  many  small  submissions! 

Too  tender,  too  yielding:  so  is  your  soil!  But  for  a  tree 
to  become  great,  it  seeketh  to  twine  hard  roots  around 
hard  rocks  1 

Also  what  ye  omit  weaveth  at  the  web  of  all  the  human 
future;  even  your  naught  is  a  cobweb,  and  a  spider  that 
liveth  on  the  blood  of  the  future. 

And  when  ye  take,  then  is  it  like  stealing,  ye  smaU 
virtuous  ones;  but  even  among  knaves  honour  saitü  tnat 
"one  shall  only  steal  when  one  cannot  rob.  ^ 

"It  giveth  itself"— that  is  also  a  doctrme  of  submis- 


i8o  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  III 

sion.  But  I  say  unto  you,  ye  co^nfortable  ones,  that  it 
taketh  to  itself,  and  will  ever  take  more  and  more  from 
you ! 

Ah,  that  ye  would  renounce  all  Äa//-willing,  and  would 
decide  for  idleness  as  ye  decide  for  action! 

Ah,  that  ye  understood  my  word:  "Do  ever  what  ye  will 
— but  first  be  such  as  can  will. 

Love  ever  your  neighbour  as  yourselves— but  first  be 
such  as  love  themselves — 

—Such  as  love  with  great  love,  such  as  love  with  great 
contempt! '*    Thus  speaketh  Zarathustra  the  godless.— 

But  why  talk  I,  when  no  one  hath  mine  ears!  It  is  still 
an  hour  too  early  for  me  here. 

Mine  own  forerunner  am  I  among  this  people,  mine  own 
cockcrow  in  dark  lanes. 

But  their  hour  cometh!  And  there  cometh  also  mine! 
Hourly  do  they  become  smaller,  poorer,  unfruitfuller,— 
poor  herbs!  poor  earth! 

And  soon  shall  they  stand  before  me  like  dry  grass  and 
prairie,  and  verily,  weary  of  themselves— and  panting  for 
fire,  more  than  for  water! 

O  blessed  hour  of  the  lightning!     O  mystery  before 

noontide!— Running  fires  will  I  one  day  make  of  them 

and  heralds  with  flaming  tongues: —  ' 

—Herald  shall  they  one  day  with  flaming  tongues:  It 

cometh,  it  is  nigh,  the  great  noontide! 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


L.— ON  THE  OLIVE-MOUNT 

Winter,  a  bad  guest,  sitteth  with  me  at  home;  blue 
are  my  hands  with  his  friendly  hand-shaking. 

I  honour  him,  that  bad  guest,  but  gladly  leave  him  alone. 
Gladly  do  I  run  away  from  him;  and  when  one  runneth 
well,t]itn  one  escapeth  him! 

With  warm  feet  and  warm  thoughts  do  I  run  where  the 
wind  is  calm— to  the  sunny  corner  of  mine  olive-mount. 

There  do  I  laugh  at  my  stern  guest,  and  am  still  fond 


L— ON  THE  OLIVE-MOUNT 


i8i 


of  him;  because  he  cleareth  my  house  of  flies,  and  quieteth 

many  little  noises. 

For  he  suffereth  it  not  if  a  gnat  wanteth  to  buzz,  or 
even  two  of  them;  also  the  lanes  maketh  he  lonesome,  so 
that  the  moonlight  is  afraid  there  at  night. 

A  hard  guest  is  he,— but  I  honour  him,  and  do  not  wor- 
ship like  the  tenderlings,  the  pot-bellied  fire-idol.     ^ 

Better  even  a  little  teeth-chattering  than  idol-adoration ! — 
so  willeth  my  nature.  And  especially  have  I  a  grudge 
against  all  ardent,  steaming,  steamy  fire-idols. 

Him  whom  I  love,  I  love  better  in  winter  than  m  sum- 
mer; better  do  I  now  mock  at  mine  enemies,  and  more 
heartily,  when  winter  sitteth  in  my  house. 

Heartily,  verily,  even  when  I  creep  into  bed—:  there,  still 
laugheth  and  wantoneth  my  hidden  happiness;  even  my  de- 
ceptive dream  laugheth.  .     ,. ,  ^  .    r       ^^ 

I  a— creeper?  Never  in  my  life  did  I  creep  before  the 
powerful;  and  if  ever  I  lied,  then  did  I  lie  out  of  love. 
Therefore  am  I  glad  even  in  my  winter-bed. 

A  poor  bed  warmeth  me  more  than  a  rich  one,  for  1  am 
jealous  of  my  poverty.    And  in  winter  she  is  most  faithful 

unto  me.  i     4.  ^i. 

With  a  wickedness  do  I  begin  every  day:  I  mock  at  tne 
winter  with  a  cold  bath:  on  that  account  grumbleth  my 

stern  house-mate.  xi,  *  1, 

Also  do  I  like  to  tickle  him  with  a  wax-taper,  that  He 
may  finally  let  the  heavens  emerge  from  ashy-grey  twi- 
light. '  .  I.        1 

For  especially  wicked  am  I  in  the  morning:  at  the  early 
hour  when  the  pail  rattleth  at  the  well,  and  horses  neigh 
warmly  in  grey  lanes: — 

Impatiently  do  I  then  wait,  that  the  clear  sky  may 
finally  dawn  for  me,  the  snow-bearded  wmter-sky,  the 
hoary  one,  the  white-head, — 

—The   winter-sky,   the   silent  winter-sky,   which  often 

stifleth  even  its  sun!  -,    n 

Did  I  perhaps  learn  from  it  the  long  clear  silence?  Or 
did  it  learn  it  from  me?    Or  hath  each  of  us  devised  it 

himself?  ,  ^^  ,j       „ 

Of  all  good  things  the  origin  is  a  tnousauuiöiu,    ah 


i82  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  III 

good  roguish  things  spring  into  existence  for  joy:  how  could 
they  always  do  so — for  once  only! 

A  good  roguish  thing  is  also  the  long  silence,  and  to 
look,  like  the  winter-sky,  out  of  a  clear,  round-eyed  coun- 
tenance:— 

—Like  it  to  stifle  one's  sun,  and  one's  inflexible  solar 
will:  verily,  this  art  and  this  winter-roguishness  have  I 
learnt  well/ 

My  best-loved  wickedness  and  art  is  it,  that  my  silence 
hath  learned  not  to  betray  itself  by  silence. 

Clattering  with  diction  and  dice,  I  outwit  the  solemn 
assistants:  all  those  stern  watchers,  shall  my  will  and 
purpose  elude. 

That  no  one  might  see  down  into  my  depth  and  inttt 
mine  ultimate  will— for  that  purpose  did  I  devise  the  long 
clear  silence. 

Many  a  shrewd  one  did  I  find:  he  veiled  his  countenance 
and  made  his  water  muddy,  that  no  one  might  see  there- 
through and  thereunder. 

But  precisely  unto  him  came  the  shrewder  distrusters 
and  nut-crackers:  precisely  from  him  did  they  fish  his 
best-concealed  fishl 

But  the  clear,  the  honest,  the  transparent — these  are 
for  me  the  wisest  silent  ones:  in  them,  so  profound  is  the 
depth  that  even  the  clearest  water  doth  not — betray  it.— 

Thou  snow-bearded,  silent,  winter-sky,  thou  round-eyed 
whitehead  above  me!  Oh,  thou  heavenly  simile  of  my 
soul  and  its  wantonness! 

And  must  I  not  conceal  myself  like  one  who  hath  swal- 
lowed gold— lest  my  soul  should  be  ripped  up? 

Must  I  not  wear  stilts,  that  they  may  overlook  my  long 
legs — all  those  enviers  and  injurers  around  me? 

Those  dingy,  fire-warmed,  used-up,  green-tinted,  ill- 
natured  souls — how  could  their  envy  endure  my  happiness! 

Thus  do  I  show  them  only  the  ice  and  winter  of  my 
peaks — and  not  that  my  mountain  windeth  all  the  solar 
girdles  around  it! 

They  hear  only  the  whistling  of  my  winter-storms:  and 
know  not  that  I  also  travel  over  warm  seas,  like  longing, 
heavy,  hot  south-winds. 


LI— ON  PASSING-BY 


183 


They  commiserate  also  my  accidents  and  chances:— but 
my  word  saith:  "Suffer  the  chance  to  come  unto  me:  inno- 
cent is  it  as  a  little  child!"  ^  -r  t  ^-^       .       ^' 

How  could  they  endure  my  happmess,  if  I  did  not  put 
around  it  accidents,  and  winter-privations,  and  bear-skm 
caps,  and  enmantling  snowflakes!  ^ 

—If  I  did  not  myself  commiserate  their  ptty,  the  pity 
of  those  enviers  and  injurers! 

—If  I  did  not  myself  sigh  before  them,  and  chatter  with 
cold,  and  patiently  let  myself  be  swathed  in  their  pity! 

This  is  the  wise  waggish-will  and  good-will  of  my  soul, 
that  it  concealeth  not  its  winters  and  glacial  storms;  it 
concealeth  not  its  chilblains  either. 

To  one  man,  lonesomeness  is  the  flight  of.  the  sick  one; 
to  another,  it  is  the  flight  from  the  sick  ones. 

Let  them  hear  me  chattering  and  sighing  with  winter- 
cold,  all  those  poor  squinting  knaves  around  me!  With 
such  sighing  and  chattering  do  I  flee  from  their  heated 

rooms.  ,    .  1      ..t 

Let  them  sympathise  with  me  and  sigh  with  me  on  ac- 
count of  my  chilblains:  "At  the  ice  of  knowledge  will  he  yet 
freeze  to  deathr— so  they  mourn. 

Meanwhile  do  I  run  with  warm  feet  hither  and  thither 
on  mine  olive-mount:  in  the  sunny  corner  of  mine  olive- 
mount  do  I  sing,  and  mock  at  all  pity. — 

Thus  sang  Zarathustra. 


LI.— ON  PASSING-BY 

Thus  slowly  wandering  through  many  peoples  and  divers 
cities,  did  Zarathustra  return  by  round-about  roads  to  his 
mountains  and  his  cave.  And  behold,  thereby  came  he  un- 
awares  also  to  the  gate  of  the  great  city.  Here  however, 
a  foaming  fool,  with  extended  hands,  sprang  forward  to 
him  and  stood  in  his  way.  It  was  the  same  fool  whom 
the  people  called  "the  ape  of  Zarathustra:"  for  he  had 
learned  from  him  something  of  the  expression  and  modula- 
tion  of  language,  and  perhaps  liked  also  to  borrow  from 


i84  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IH 

the  store  of  his  wisdom.     And  the  fool  talked  thus  to 
Zarathustra: 

O  Zarathustra,  here  is  the  great  city:  here  hast  thou 
nothing  to  seek  and  everything  to  lose. 

Why  wouldst  thou  wade  through  this  mire?  Have  pity 
upon  thy  foot!  Spit  rather  on  the  gate  of  the  city,  and— 
turn  back! 

Here  is  the  hell  for  anchorites'  thoughts:  here  are  great 
thoughts  seethed  alive  and  boiled  small. 

Here  do  all  great  sentiments  decay:  here  may  only  rattle- 
boned  sensations  rattle! 

Smellest  thou  not  already  the  shambles  and  cookshops  of 
the  spirit?  Steameth  not  this  city  with  the  fumes  of 
slaughtered  spirit? 

Seest  thou  not  the  souls  hanging  like  limp  dirty  rags?— 
And  they  make  newspapers  also  out  of  these  rags! 

nearest  thou  not  how  spirit  hath  here  become  a  verbal 
game?  Loathsome  verbal  swill  doth  it  vomit  forth!— 
And  they  make  newspapers  also  out  of  this  verbal  swill 

They  hound  one  another,  and  know  not  whither!  They 
inflame  one  another,  and  know  not  why !  They  tinkle  with 
their  pinchbeck,  they  jingle  with  their  gold. 

They  are  cold,  and  seek  warmth  from  distilled  waters: 
they  are  inflamed,  and  seek  coolness  from  frozen  spirits; 
they  are  all  sick  and  sore  through  public  opinion. 

All  lusts  and  vices  are  here  at  home;  but  here  there 
are  also  the  virtuous;  there  is  much  appointable  appointed 
virtue: — 

^  Much  appointable  virtue  with  scribe-fingers,  and  hardy 
sitting-flesh  and  waiting-flesh,  blessed  with  small  breast- 
stars,  and  padded,  haunchless  daughters. 

There  is  here  also  much  piety,  and  much  faithful  spittle- 
licking  and  spittle-backing,  before  the  God  of  Hosts. 

"From  on  high,''  drippeth  the  star,  and  the  gracious  spit- 
tle; for  the  high,  longeth  every  starless  bosom. 

The  moon  hath  its  court,  and  the  court  hath  its  moon- 
calves: unto  all,  however,  that  cometh  from  the  court  do 
the  mendicant  people  pray,  and  all  appointable  mendicant 
virtues. 

"I  serve,  thou  servest,  we  serve"— so  prayeth  all  ap- 


LI— ON  PASSING-BY 


185 


pointable  virtue  to  the  prince:  that  the  merited  star  may 
Qt  last  stick  on  the  slender  breast!  ^ 

But  the  moon  still  revolveth  around  all  that  is  earthly: 
so  revolveth  also  the  prince  around  what  is  earthliest  ot 
all— that,  however,  is  the  gold  of  the  shopman. 

The  God  of  the  Hosts  of  war  is  not  the  God  of  the  golden 
bar;  the  prince  proposeth,  but  the  shopman-disposeth! 

Bv  all  that  is  luminous  and  strong  and  good  m  thee, 
0  Zarathustra!     Spit  on  this  city  of  shopmen  and  return 

^^Here  floweth  all  blood  putridly  and  tepidly  and  frothily 
through  all  veins:   spit  on  the  great  city,  which  is  the 
great  slum  where  all  the  scum  frotheth  together! 
Spit  on  the  city  of  compressed  souls  and  slender  breasts, 

of  pointed  eyes  and  sticky  fingers—  ,      .   ,t,,  ^^„ 

—On  the  city  of  the  obtrusive,  the  brazen-faced,  the  pen- 
demagogues  and  tongue-demagogues,  the  overheated  ambi- 

^' w'h^e  everything  maimed,  ill-famed,  lustful,  untrustful, 
over-mellow,  sickly-yellow  and  seditious,  festereth  perm- 

cious:— 
—Spit  on  the  great  city  and  turn  back!— 

•   Here,  however,  did  Zarathustra  interrupt  the  foaming 

fool,  and  shut  his  mouth.—  ,       t,    ^  »v,,, ' 

Stop  this  at  once!  called  out  Zarathustra,  long  have  thy 

speech  and  thy  species  disgusted  me!  ■ 

Why  didst  thou  live  so  long  by  the  swamp,  that  thou 

thyself  hadst  to  become  a  frog  and  a  toad? 
Floweth  there  not  a  tainted,  frothy,  swamp-blood  in  thme 

own  veins,  when  thou  hast   thus  learned   to  croak   and 

''why  wentest  thou  not  into  the  forest?     Or  why  didst 
thou  Lr  till  the  ground?     Is  the  sea  not  full  of  green 

I  despise  thy  contempt;  and  when  thou  wamedst  me- 
why  didst  thou  not  warn  thyself?  „^;„„ 

Out  of  love  alone  shall  my  contempt  and  my  warnmg 
bird  take  wing;  but  not  out  of  the  swamp!— 

They  call  thee  mine  ape,  thou  foammg  fool,  but  1  call 


^i" 


i86  THUS  SPAKE  ZARAJHUSTRA,  HI 

thee  my  grunting-pig,— by  thy  grunting,  thou  spoilest  even 
my  praise  of  folly. 

What  was  it  that  first  made  thee  grunt?  Because  no 
one  sufficiently  flattered  thee:— therefore  didst  thou  seat 
thyself  beside  this  filth,  that  thou  mightest  have  cause  for 
much  grunting, — 

— That  thou  mightest  have  cause  for  much  vengeance! 
For  vengeance,  thou  vain  fool,  is  all  thy  foaming;  I  have 
divined  thee  well! 

But  thy  fools'-word  injureth  me,  even  when  thou  art 
right!  And  even  if  Zarathustra's  word  were  a  hundred 
times  justified,  thou  wouldst  ever— do  wrong  with  my  word! 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra.  Then  did  he  look  on  the  great 
city  and  sighed,  and  was  long  silent.  At  last  he  spake 
thus: 

I  loathe  also  this  great  city,  and  not  only  this  fool. 
Here  and  there— there  is  nothing  to  better,  nothing  to 
worsen. 

Woe  to  this  great  city!— And  I  would  that  I  already 
saw  the  pillar  of  fire  in  which  it  will  be  consumed! 

For  such  pillars  of  fire  must  precede  the  great  noontide. 
But  this  hath  its  time  and  its  own  fate. — 

This  precept,  however,  give  I  unto  thee,  in  parting, 
.thou  fool:  Where  one  can  no  longer  love,  there  should 
one — pass  by! — 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra,  and  passed  by  the  fool  and 
the  great  city. 


LH— THE  APOSTATES 


187 


LH.— THE  APOSTATES 


X. 


Ah,  lieth  everything  already  withered  and  grey  which 
but  lately  stood  green  and  many-hued  on  this  meadow! 
And  how  much  honey  of  hope  did  I  carry  hence  Into  my 
beehives! 


Those  young  hearts  have  already  all  become  old— and 
J  old  even!  only  weary,  ordinary,  comfortable: -they 
declare  it:  "We  have  again  become  pious. 

Of  late  did  I  see  them  run  forth  at  early  morn  with 
valorous  steps:  but  the  feet  of  their  knowledge  became 
weary,  and  now  do  they  malign  even  their  morning  valour! 

Verily,  many  of  them  once  lifted  their  legs  like  the 
dancer-  to  them  winked  the  laughter  of  my  wisdom :- 
[hen  did  they  bethink  themselves.  Just  now  have  I  seen 
them  bent  down— to  creep  to  the  cross. 

Around  light  and  liberty  did  they  once  flutter  like  gnats 
and  young  poetS-  A  little  older,  a  little  colder:  and  al- 
ready are  they  mystifiers,  and  mumblers  and  mollycoddles. 

Did  perhaps  their  hearts  despond,  because  lonesomeness 
had  swallowed  me  like  a  whale?  Did  their  ear  perhaps 
hearken  yearningly-long  for  me  in  vain,  and  for  my  trumpet- 
notes  and  herald-calls?  

—Ah'  Ever  are  there  but  few  of  those  whose  hearts 
have  persistent  courage  and  exuberance;  and  m  such  re- 
maineth  also  the  spirit  patient.     The  rest,  however,  are 

'The  rest:  these  are  always  the  great  majority,  the  com- 
mon-place, the  superfluous,  the  far-too  many— those  all  are 

'Tm  wh7is  of  my  type,  will  also  *e  experiences  of  my 
type  meet  on  the  way:  so  that  his  first  companions  must 
be  corpses  and  buffoons.  , 

His  second  companions,  however-they  will  caH  them- 
selves his  believers,-^\\\  be  a  living  host,  with  much  love, 
much  folly,  much  unbearded  veneration. 

To  those  believers  shall  he  who  is  of  my  type  among 
men  not  bind  his  heart;  in  those  spnng-times  and  many- 
hued  meadows  shall  he  not  believe,  who  knoweth  the  fickly 
faint-hearted  human  species!  .j;;«*!,«. 

Could  they  do  otherwise,  then  would  they  also  ««//  other- 
wise.  The  half-and-half  spoil  every  whole.  That  leaves 
become  withered,-what  is  there  to  lainent  about  that! 

Let  them  go  and  fall  away,  O  Zarathustra,  and  do  not 
lament!  Better  even  to  blow  amongst  them  with  rustling 
winds, — 


\ 


/^' 


i88  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  III 

—Blow  amongst  those  leaves,  O  Zarathustra,  that  every- 
thing  withered  may  run  away  from  thee  the  faster! 

2. 

'We  have  again  become  pious" — so  do  those  apostates 
confess;  and  some  of  them  are  still  too  pusillanimous  thus 
to  confess. 

Unto  them  I  look  into  the  eye, — before  them  I  say  it 
unto  their  face  and  unto  the  blush  on  their  cheeks:  Ye 
are  those  who  again  pray  I 

It  is  however  a  shame  to  pray!  Not  for  all,  but  for 
thee,  and  me,  and  whoever  hath  his  conscience  in  his 
head.    For  thee  it  is  a  shame  to  pray! 

Thou  knowest  it  well:  the  faint-hearted  devil  in  thee, 
which  would  fain  fold  its  arms,  and  place  its  hands  in 
its  bosom,  and  take  it  easier:— this  faint-hearted  devil  per- 
suadeth  thee  that  "there  is  a  God!" 

Thereby,  however,  dost  thou  belong  to  the  light-dreading 
type,  to  whom  light  never  permitteth  repose:  now  must  thou 
daily  thrust  thy  head  deeper  into  obscurity  and  vapour! 

And  verily,  thou  choosest  the  hour  well:  for  just  now 
do  the  nocturnal  birds  again  fly  abroad.  The  hour  hath 
come  for  all  light-dreading  people,  the  vesper  hour  and 
leisure  hour,  when  they  do  not — "take  leisure." 

I  hear  it  and  smell  it:  it  hath  come — their  hour  for  hunt 
and  procession,  not  indeed  for  a  wild  hunt,  but  for  a  tame, 
lame,  snuffling,  soft-treaders',  soft-prayers'  hunt, — 

— For  a  hunt  after  susceptible  simpletons:  all  mouse- 
traps for  the  heart  have  again  been  set!  And  whenever 
I  lift  a  curtain,  a  night-moth  rusheth  out  of  it. 

Did  it  perhaps  squat  there  along  with  another  night- 
moth?  For  everywhere  do  I  smell  small  concealed  com- 
munities; and  wherever  there  are  closets  there  are  new  de- 
votees therein,  and  the  atmosphere  of  devotees. 

They  sit  for  long  evenings  beside  one  another,  and  say: 
"Let  us  again  become  like  little  children  and  say,  'good 
God!'" — ruined  in  mouths  and  stomachs  by  the  pious 
confectioners. 

Or  they  look  for  long  evenings  at  a  crafty,  lurking  cross- 


LII— THE  APOSTATES 


189 


.nider  that  preacheth  prudence  to  the  spiders  themselves, 
and  teacheth  that  "under  crosses  it  is  good  for  cobweb- 

^^Onhey  sit  all  day  at  swamps  with  angle-rods,  and  on 
that  account  think  themselves  profound;  but  whoever  fish- 
eth  where   there  are  no   fish,   I   do   not  even   call  him 

'"or^they  learn  in  godly-gay  style  to  play  the  harp  with 
a  hymn-poet,  who  would  fain  harp  himse  f  into  the  heart 
of  young  girls:-for  he  hath  tired  of  old  girls  and  their 

%f  Aey  learn  to  shudder  with  a  learned  semi-madcap, 
who  waiteth  in  darkened  rooms  for  spirits  to  come  to  him 
—and  the  spirit  runneth  away  entirely!  , 

Or  they  listen  to  an  old  roving  howl-  and  growl-pii^r, 
who  hath  learnt  from  the  sad  winds  the  sadness  of  sounds; 
now  pipeth  he  as  the  wind,  and  preacheth  sadness  m  sad 

And*  some  of  them  have  even  become  night-watchmen: 
they  know  now  how  to  blow  horns,  and  go  about  at  night 
and  awaken  old  things  which  have  long  fallen  asleep 

Five  words  about  old  things  did  I  hear  yesternight  at  the 
garden-wall:    they  came  from  such  old,  sorrowful,   and 

"'^Tor^a^fjlther  he  careth  not  sufficiently  for  his  children: 
human  fathers  do  this  better!"— 

"He  is  too  old!  He  now  careth  no  more  for  his  cmi- 
dren,"— answered  the  other  night-watchman. 

"Hath  he  then  children?  No  one  can  prove  it  unless 
he  himself  prove  it!  I  have  long  wished  that  he  would 
for  once  prove  it  thoroughly." 

"Prove?  As  if  he  had  ever  proved  anything!  Prov- 
ing is  difficult  to  him;  he  layeth  great  stress  on  ones 

'^S?^  a""  Belief  saveth  him;  belief  in  him     That  is 
the  way  with  old  people!     So  it  is  with  us  .also!  - 

—Thus  spake  to  each  other  the  two  old  night-iVatchmen 
and  light-scarers,  and  tooted  thereupon  so^wfuUy  on 
their  horns:  so  did  it  happen  yesternight  at  the  garden- 
wall. 


190  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  III 

To  me,  however,  did  the  heart  writhe  with  laughter 
and  was  like  to  break;  it  knew  not  where  to  ßo,  and  sunk 
into  the  midriff.  '  ^ 

Verily,  it  will  be  my  death  yet— to  choke  with  laughter 
when  I  see  asses  drunken,  and  hear  night-watchmen  thus 
doubt  about  God. 

Hath  the  time  not  long  since  passed  for  all  such  doubts? 
Who  may  nowadays  awaken  such  old  slumbering,  light- 
shunning  things! 

With  the  old  Deities  hath  it  long  since  come  to  an  end:— 
and  verily,  a  good  joyful  Deity-end  had  they  I 

They  did  not  "begloom"  themselves  to  death— that  do 
people  fabricate!  On  the  contrary,  they— laughed  them- 
selves  to  death  once  on  a  time! 

That  took  place  when  the  ungodliest  utterance  came 
from  a  God  himself— the  utterance:  "There  is  but  one  God! 
Thou  Shalt  have  no  other  Gods  before  me!" — 

.  —An  old  grim-beard  of  a  God,  a  jealous  one,  forgot 
himself  in  such  wise: — 

And  all  the  Gods  then  laughed,  and  shook  upon  their 
thrones,  and  exclaimed:  "Is  it  not  just  divinity  that  there 
are  Gods,  but  no  God?" 

He  that  hath  an  ear  let  him  hear. — 

Thus  talked  Zarathustra  in  the  city  he  loved,  which  is 
surnamed  "The  Pied  Cow."  For  from  here  he  had  but 
two  days  to  travel  to  reach  once  more  his  cave  and  his 
animals;  his  soul,  however,  rejoiced  unceasingly  on  ac- 
count of  the  nighness  of  his  return  home. 


LIII— THE  RETURN  HOME 


191 


LIII.— THE  RETURN  HOME 

O  lonesomeness !  my  home,  lonesomeness !  Too  long  have 
I  lived  wildly  in  wild  remoteness,  to  return  to  thee  with- 
out tears! 

Now  threaten  me  with  the  finger  as  mothers  threaten; 
now  smile  upon  me  as  mothers  smile;  now  say  just:  "Who 
was  it  that  like  a  whirlwind  once  rushed  away  from  me? — 


\ 


—Who  when  departing  called  out:  Too  long  have  I  sat 
with  lonesomeness;  there  have  I  unlearned  silence!'  That 
hast  thou  learned  now— surely?  ^   ,        1. 

0  Zarathustra,  everything  do  I  know;  and  that  thou  wert 
more  forsaken  amongst  the  many,  thou  unique  one,  than 
thou  ever  wert  with  me! 

One  thing  is  forsakenness,  another  matter  is  lonesome- 
ness: that  hast  thou  now  learned!  And  that  amongst  men 
thou  wilt  ever  be  wild  and  strange:  ,        ^       i. 

—Wild  and  strange  even  when  they  love  thee:  for  above 
all  they  want  to  be  treated  indulgently  I 

Here  however,  art  thou  at  home  and  house  with  thy- 
self- here  canst  thou  utter  everything,  and  unbosom  all 
motives;  nothing  is  here  ashamed  of  concealed,  congealed 

Here  do  all  things  come  caressingly  to  thy  talk  and  flat- 
ter thee:  for  they  want  to  ride  upon  thy  back.  On  every 
simile  dost  thou  here  ride  to  every  truth. 

Uprightly  and  openly  mayest  thou  here  talk  to  all  things: 
and  verily,  it  soundeth  as  praise  in  their  ears,  for  one  to 
talk  to  all  things— directly!  t-        ^  o* 

Another  matter,  however,  is  forsakenness.  For,  dost 
thou  remember,  O  Zarathustra?  When  thy  bird  screamed 
overhead,  when  thou  stoodest  in  the  forest,  irresolute,  igno- 
rant where  to  go,  beside  a  corpse:—       ,   ,     ,       ,    ., 

—When  thou  spakest:  'Let  mine  animals  lead  me!  More 
dangerous  have  I  found  it  among  men  than  among  ani- 
mals:'—TÄaf  was  forsakenness! 

And  dost  thou  remember,  O  Zarathustra?  When  thou 
sattest  in  thine  isle,  a  well  of  wine  giving  and  granting 
amongst  empty  buckets,  bestowing  and  distributing  amongst 

the  thirsty:  , ,    ^  .    .,  ^ 

—Until  at  last  thou  alone  sattest  thirsty  amongst  the 
drunken  ones,  and  wailedst  nightly:  'Is  taking  not  more 
blessed  than  giving?  And  stealing  yet  more  blessed  than 
taking?'— That  was  forsakenness!  .^     «n.      *i. 

And  dost  thou  remember,  O  Zarathustra?     When  thy 
stillest  hour  came  and  drove  thee  forth  from  thyself,  when 
with  wicked  whispering  it  said:  'Speak  and  succumb!  —    ^ 
—When  it  disgusted  thee  with  all  thy  waiüng  and  a- 


192  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  III 

lence,  and   discouraged  thy  humble  courage:    That  was 
forsakenness ! ' ' — 

0  lonesomeness !  My  home,  lonesomeness!  How  bless- 
edly and  tenderly  speaketh  thy  voice  unto  me! 

We  do  not  question  each  other,  we  do  not  complain  to 
each  other;  we  go  together  openly  through  open  doors. 

For  all  is  open  with  thee  and  clear;  and  even  the  hours 
run  here  on  lighter  feet.  For  in  the  dark,  time  weigheth 
heavier  upon  one  than  in  the  light. 

Here  fly  open  unto  me  all  being's  words  and  word- 
cabinets:  here  all  being  wanteth  to  become  words,  here 
all  becoming  wanteth  to  learn  of  me  how  to  talk. 

Down  there,  however — all  talking  is  in  vain  I  There, 
forgetting  and  passing-by  are  the  best  wisdom:  that  have 
I  learned  now! 

He  who  would  understand  everything  in  man  must  handle 
everything.     But  for  that  I  have  too  clean  hands. 

1  do  not  like  even  to  inhale  their  breath;  alas!  that  I 
have  lived  so  long  among  their  noise  and  bad  breaths! 

O  blessed  stillness  around  me!  O  pure  odours  around 
me!  How  from  a  deep  breast  this  stillness  fetcheth  pure 
breath!     How  it  hearkeneth,  this  blessed  stillness! 

But  down  there — there  speaketh  everything,  there  is 
everything  misheard.  If  one  announce  one's  wisdom  with 
bells,  the  shopmen  in  the  market-place  will  out-jingle  it 
with  pennies! 

Everything  among  them  talketh;  no  one  knoweth  any 
longer  how  to  understand.  Everything  falleth  into  the 
water;  nothing  falleth  any  longer  into  deep  wells. 

Everything  among  them  talketh,  nothing  succeedeth  any 
longer  and  accomplisheth  itself.  Everything  cackleth,  but 
who  will  still  sit  quietly  on  the  nest  and  hatch  eggs? 

Everything  among  them  talketh,  everything  is  out-talked. 
And  that  which  yesterday  was  still  too  hard  for  time  itself 
and  its  tooth,  hangeth  to-day,  outchamped  and  outchewed, 
from  the  mouths  of  the  men  of  to-day. 

Everything  among  them  talketh,  everything  is  betrayed. 
And  what  was  once  called  the  secret  and  secrecy  of  pro- 
found souls,  belongeth  to-day  to  the  street-trumpeters  and 
other  butterflies. 


LIII— THE  RETURN  HOME 


193 


0  human  hubbub,  thou  wonderful  thing!  Thou  noise 
in  dark  streets!  Now  art  thou  again  behind  me:— my 
greatest  danger  lieth  behind  me! 

In  indulging  and  pitying  lay  ever  my  greatest  danger; 
and  all  human  hubbub  wisheth  to  be  indulged  and  tolerated. 

With  suppressed  truths,  with  fool's  hand  and  befooled 
heart,  and  rich  in  petty  lies  of  pity:— thus  have  I  ever  lived 

among  men.  •  •  j^^ 

Disguised  did  I  sit  amongst  them,  ready  to  misjudge 
myselj  that  I  might  endure  them,  and  willingly  saying  to 
myself:  "Thou  fool,  thou  dost  not  know  men!" 

One  unlearneth  men  when  one  liveth  amongst  them: 
there  is  too  much  foreground  in  all  men— what  can  far- 
seeing,  far-longing  eyes  do  there!  .  .    ,     ,  j  . 

And,  fool  that  I  was,  when  they  misjudged  me,  i  m- 
dulged  them  on  that  account  more  than  myself,  being 
habitually  hard  on  myself,  and  often  even  taking  revenge 
on  myself  for  the  indulgence. 

Stung  all  over  by  poisonous  flies,  and  hollowed  like 
the  stone  by  many  drops  of  wickedness:  thus  did  i  sit 
among  them,  and  still  said  to  myself:  "Innocent  is  every- 
thing  petty  of  its  pettiness!" 

Especially  did  I  find  those  who  call  themselves  the 
good,"  the  most  poisonous  flies;  they  sting  in  all  innocence, 
they  lie  in  all  innocence;  how  could  they— be  just  towards 

He  who  liveth  amongst  the  good— pity  teacheth  him 
to  lie.  Pity  maketh  stifling  air  for  all  free  souls.  J^or 
the  stupidity  of  the  good  is  unfathomable.^ 

To  conceal  myself  and  my  riches— ^Äa^  did  I  learn  down 
there-  for  every  one  did  I  still  find  poor  in  spirit.  It  was 
the  lie  of  my  pity,  that  I  knew  in  every  one, 

—That  I  saw  and  scented  in  every  one,  what  was  enougn 
of  spirit  for  him,  and  what  was  too  much! 

Their  stiff  wise  men:  I  call  them  wise,  not  stiff— thus  did 
I  learn  to  slur  over  words.  , 

The  grave-diggers  dig  for  themselves  diseases.  Under 
old  rubbish  rest  bad  vapours.  One  should  not  stir  up  the 
marsh.     One  should  live  on  mountains. 

With   blessed   nostrils   do   I   again   breathe  mountain- 


\\\ 


194  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  III 

freedom.     Freed  at  last  is  my  nose  from  the  smell  of  all 
human  hubbub! 

With  sharp  breezes  tickled,  as  with  sparkling  wine, 
sneezeth  my  soul— sneezeth,  and  shouteth  self-congratu- 
latingly:   "Health  to  thee!" 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


LIV— THE  THREE  EVIL  THINGS 


195 


LIV.— THE  THREE  EVIL  THINGS 

I. 

In  my  dream,  in  my  last  morning-dream,  I  stood  to-day 
on  a  promontory — beyond  the  world ;  I  held  a  pair  of  scales, 
and  weighed  the  world. 

Alas,  that  the  rosy  dawn  came  too  early  to  me:  she 
glowed  me  awake,  the  jealous  one!  Jealous  is  she  always 
of  the  glows  of  my  morning-dream. 

Measurable  by  him  who  hath  time,  weighable  by  a  good 
weigher,  attainable  by  strong  pinions,  divinable  by  divine 
nut-crackers:  thus  did  my  dream  find  the  world: — 

My  dream,  a  bold  sailor,  half-ship,  half-hurricane,  silent 
as  the  butterfly,  impatient  as  the  falcon:  how  had  it  the 
patience  and  leisure  to-day  for  world-weighing! 

Did  my  wisdom  perhaps  speak  secretly  to  it,  my  laugh- 
ing, wide-awake  day-wisdom,  which  mocketh  at  all  "infinite 
worlds"?  For  it  saith:  "Where  force  is,  there  becometh 
number  the  master:  it  hath  more  force." 

How  confidently  did  my  dream  contemplate  this  finite 
world,  not  new-fangledly,  not  old-fangledly,  not  timidly,  not 
entreatingly : — 

--As  if  a  big  round  apple  presented  itself  to  my  hand, 
a  ripe  golden  apple,  with  a  coolly-soft,  velvety  «kin: — thus 
did   the  world  present  itself  unto  me: — 

— As  if  a  tree  nodded  unto  me,  a  broad-branched,  strong 
willed  tree,  curved  as  a  recline  and  a  foot-stool  for  weary 
travellers:  thus  did  the  world  stand  on  my  promontory: — 

— As  if  delicate  hands  carried  a  casket  towards  me — a 


casket  open  for  the  delectation  of  modest  adoring  eyes: 
thus  did  the  world  present  itself  before  me  to-day:— 

Not  riddle  enough  to  scare  human  love  from  it,  not 

solution  enough  to  put  to  sleep  human  wisdom:— a  humanly 
good  thing  was  the  world  to  me  to-day,  of  which  such  bad 

things  are  said!  ^ 

How  I  thank  my  morning-dream  that  I  thus  at  to-days 

dawn,  weighed  the  world!     As  a  humanly  good  thing  did 

it  come  unto  me,  this  dream  and  heart-comforter! 
And  that  I  may  do  the  like  by  day,  and  imitate  and 

copy  its  best,  now  will  I  put  the  three  worst  things  on  the 

scales,  and  weigh  them  humanly  well. — 
He  who  taught  to  bless  taught  also  to  curse:  what  are 

the  three  best  cursed  things  in  the  world?     These  will  I 

put  on  the  scales. 

Voluptuousness,  passion  for  power,  and  selfishness:  these 
three  things  have  hitherto  been  best  cursed,  and  have  been 
in  worst  and  falsest  repute— these  three  things  will  I  weigh 

humanly  well. 

Well!  here  is  my  promontory,  and  there  is  the  se^—it 
rolleth  hither  unto  me,  shaggily  and  fawningly,  the  old, 
faithful,  hundred-headed  dog-monster  that  I  love!— 

Well!  Here  will  I  hold  the  scales  over  the  weltenng 
sea:  and  also  a  witness  do  I  choose  to  look  on— thee,  the 
anchorite-tree,  thee,  the  strong-odoured,  broad-arched  tree 

that  I  love! —  r     ^     -o 

On  what  bridge  goeth  the  now  to  the  hereafter?     By 

what  constraint  doth  the  high  stoop  to   the  low?     And 

what  enjoineth  even  the  highest  still— to  grow  upwards?— 
Now  stand  the  scales  poised  and  at  rest:  three  heavy 

questions  have  I  thrown  in;  three  heavy  answers  carrieth 

the  other  scale. 

2. 

Voluptuousness:  unto  all  hair-shirted  despisers  of  the 
body,  a  sting  and  stake;  and,  cursed  as  "the  world,"  by 
all  backworldsmen:  for  it  mocketh  and  befooleth  all  errmg, 

misinferring  teachers. 

Voluptuousness:   to  the  rabble,  the  slow  fire  at  which 


u 


196 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  III 


it  is  burnt;  to  all  wormy  wood,  to  all  stinking  rags,  the 
prepared  heat  and  stew  furnace. 

Voluptuousness:  to  free  hearts,  a  thing  innocent  and 
free,  the  garden-happiness  of  the  earth,  all  the  future's 
thanks-overflow  to  the  present. 

Voluptuousness:  only  to  the  withered  a  sweet  poison; 
to  the  lion-willed,  however,  the  great  cordial,  and  the  rever- 
ently saved  wine  of  wines. 

Voluptuousness:  the  great  symbolic  happiness  of  a  higher 
happiness  and  highest  hope.  For  to  many  is  marriage 
promised,  and  more  than  marriage,— 

— ^To  many  that  are  more  unknown  to  each  other  than 
man  and  woman: — and  who  hath  fully  understood  how 
unknown  to  each  other  are  man  and  woman  1 

Voluptuousness: — but  I  will  have  hedges  around  my 
thoughts,  and  even  around  my  words,  lest  swine  and  liber- 
tine should  break  into  my  gardens! — 

Passion  for  power:  the  glowing  scourge  of  the  hardest 
of  the  heart-hard;  the  cruel  torture  reserved  for  the  cruel- 
lest themselves;  the  gloomy  flame  of  living  pyres. 

Passion  for  power:  the  wicked  gadfly  which  is  mounted 
on  the  vainest  peoples;  the  scorner  of  all  uncertain  virtue; 
which  rideth  on  every  horse  and  on  eveiy  pride. 

Passion  for  power:  the  earthquake  which  breaketh  and 
upbreaketh  all  that  is  rotten  and  hollow;  the  rolling, 
rumbling,  punitive  demolisher  of  whited  sepulchres;  the 
flashing  interrogative-sign  beside  premature  answers. 

Passion  for  power:  before  whose  glance  man  creepeth 
and  croucheth  and  drudgeth,  and  becometh  lower  than 
the  serpent  and  the  swine: — ^until  at  last  great  contempt 
crieth  out  of  him — , 

Passion  for  power:  the  terrible  teacher  of  great  con- 
tempt, which  preacheth  to  their  face  to  cities  and  em- 
pires: "Away  with  thee!" — until  a  voice  crieth  out  of 
themselves:  "Away  with  meT* 

Passion  for  power:  which,  however,  mounteth  alluringly 
even  to  the  pure  and  lonesome,  and  up  to  self-satisfied 
elevations,  glowing  like  a  love  that  painteth  purple  felici- 
ties alluringly  on  earthly  heavens. 

Passion  for  power:  but  who  would  call  it  passion,  when 


LIV— THE  THREE  EVIL  THINGS  I97 

the  height  longeth  to  stoop  for  powerl     Verily,  nothing 
tk  ordiseased  is  there  in  such  longing  and  descendmg! 

T^^^^^^^      lonesome  height  may  not  for  ever  remam  lone- 
some  and  self-sufficing;  that  the  mountams  may  come  to       ; 
rvaUeys  and  the  winds  of  the  heights  to  the  plams:- 
%rS  could  find  the  right  prenomen  and  honouring 
name  for  such  longing!      "Bestowing   virtue"-thus  did 
7arathustra  once  name  the  unnamable.  • 

And  tS  it  happened  also,-and  verily,  it  happened  for 
the  first  to^^  his  word  blessed  seljishnesst\.t  who  e- 

strÄ  selfishness,  that  springeth  from  the  powerful 

^^""^'pvom  the  powerful  soul,  to  which  the  high  body  apper- 
tai^eS,"^^^^^^^^  triumphing,  refreshing  body,  around 

"'^ThTÄ^-X^X'X'W,  whose  >ymW 

and  JpitoSie  isL  self-njoying  souL  ^^^^^^^^^^^^  bodies  and 
<;niils  the  self-enjoyment  calleth  itself    virtue. 

Wi^its  words  of  good  and  bad  doth  such  self-enjoyment 
.hPlter  iteelf  as  with  sacred  groves;  with  the  names  of  ts 
hap^LÄ  itlnish  f romltself  everything  contem^^^^^^^^^ 

Away  from  itself  doth  it  banish  everything  cowardly , 
it  sS  "Bad-f Aa*  is  cowardly!  Contemptible  seem  to 
it  the  ever-solicitous,  the  sighing,  the  complaining,  and  who- 
ever pick  up  the  most  trifling  advantage. 

It  despiseth  also  all  bitter-sweet  wisdom:  for  verily, 
there  is  also  wisdom  that  bloometh  in  the  dark  a  night- 
shade wisdom   which  ever  sigheth:  "All  is  vain! 

Shv  TstS  il  regarded  by  it  as  base,  and  every  one  who 
wanteth  oaths  instead  of  looks  and  hands:  also  all  over- 
Sustful  wLdom,-for  such  is  the  mode  of   cowardly 

'°  Baser  still  it  regardeth  the  obsequious,  doggish  one,  who 
immeSatdy  iieth'on  his  back  ^he  subm^sive  one;  and 
there  is  also  wisdom  that  is  submissive,  and  doggish,  ana 

^TateSf  to'Ä^^ther,  and  a  loat^Sfin^t^nl" 
never  defend  himself,  he  who  swaloweth  down  Poisono"s   . 
spTttL  and  bad  looks,  the  all-too-patient  «"«'J^e  alU'^durer, 
the  all-satisfied  one:  for  that  is  the  mode  of  slaves. 


ipS 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  III 


LV— THE  SPIRIT  OF  GRAVITY 


199 


Whether  they  be  servile  before  Gods  and  divine  spurn- 
ings,  or  before  men  and  stupid  human  opinions:  at  all 
kinds  of  slaves  doth  it  spit,  this  blessed  selfishness! 

Bad:  thus  doth  it  call  all  that  is  spirit-broken,  and 
sordidly-servile  —  constrained,  blinking  eyes,  depressed 
hearts,  and  the  false  submissive  style,  which  kisseth  with 
broad  cowardly  lips. 

And  spurious  wisdom:  so  doth  it  call  all  the  wit  that 
slaves,  and  hoary-headed  and  weary  ones  affect;  and  espe- 
cially all  the  cunning,  spurious-witted,  curious-witted  fool- 
ishness of  priests! 

The  spurious  wise,  however,  all  the  priests,  the  world- 
weary,  and  those  whose  souls  are  of  feminine  and  servile 
nature — oh,  how  hath  their  game  all  along  abused  selfish- 
ness ! 

And  precisely  that  was  to  be  virtue  and  was  to  be  called 
virtue — to  abuse  selfishness!  And  "selfless" — so  did  they 
wish  themselves  with  good  reason,  all  those  world-weary 
cowards  and  cross-spiders! 

But  to  all  those  cometh  now  the  day,  the  change,  the 
sword  of  judgment,  the  great  noontide:  then  shall  many 
things  be  revealed! 

And  he  who  proclaimeth  the  ego  wholesome  and  holy, 
and  selfishness  blessed,  verily,  he,  the  prognosticator,  speak- 
eth  also  what  he  knoweth:  ^'Behold,  it  cometh,  it  is  nigh, 
the  great  noontide  T* 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 

LV.— THE  SPIRIT  OF  GRAVITY 


I. 

My  mouthpiece — is  of  the  people:  too  coarsely  and  cor- 
dially do  I  talk  for  Angora  rabbits.  And  still  stranger 
soundeth  my  word  unto  all  ink-fish  and  pen-foxes. 

My  hand — is  a  fooPs  hand:  woe  unto  all  tables  and 
walls,  and  whatever  hath  room  for  fool's  sketching,  fooFs 
scrawling! 


Mv  foot— is  a  horse-foot;  therewith  do  I  trample  and 
trot  over  stick  and  stone,  in  the  fields  up  and  down,  and 
am  bedevilled  with  delight  in  all  fast  racing. 

My  stomach— is  surely  an  eagle's  stomach?  For  it  pre- 
ferreth  lamb's  flesh.    Certainly  it  is  a  bird's  stomach. 

Nourished  with  innocent  things,  and  with  few,  ready 
and  impatient  to  fly,  to  fly  away-that  is  now  my  nature: 
why  should  there  not  be  something  of  bird-nature  therein! 
And  especially  that  I  am  hostile  to  the  spirit  of  gravity, 
/  that  is  bird-nature:-verily,  deadly  hostile,  supremely  hos- 
tile,  originally  hostile!  Oh,  whither  hath  my  hostility  not 
flown  and  misflown!  .  .i,^„„u 

>.-^    Thereof  could  I  sing  a  song and  will  smg  it.  though 

j    I  be  alone  in  an  empty  house,  and  must  sing  it  to  mine 

'    own  ears.  ,  ,       *i.       ^    i  ^.i,« 

^      Other  singers  are  there,  to  be  sure,  to  whom  only  the 

full  house  maketh  the  voice  soft,  the  hand  eloquent,  the 

eye    expressive,    the    heart    wakeful:— those    do    I  not 

resemble. — 

2. 

He  who  one  day  teacheth  men  to  fly  will  have  shifted 
all  landmarks;  to  him  will  all  landmarks  themselves  fly 
into  the  air;  the  earth  will  he  christen  anew— as    the  light 

The  ostrich  runneth  faster  than  the  fastest  horse  buf 
it  also  thrusteth  its  head  heavily  into  the  heavy  earth:  thus 
is  it  with  the  man  who  cannot  yet  fly. 

Heavy  unto  him  are  earth  and  hfe,  and  so  wtlleth  the 
spirit  of  gravity!  But  he  who  would  become  light,  and 
be  a  bird,  must  love  himself -.—thus  do  /  teach 

Not,  to  be  sure,  with  the  love  of  the  sick  and  mfected, 
for  with  them  stinketh  even  self-love! 

One  must  learn  to  love  oneself— thus  do  I  teach— with 
a  wholesome  and  healthy  love:  that  one  may  endure  to  be 
with  oneself,  and  not  go  roving  about 

Such  roving  about  christeneth  itself  "brotheriy  love 
with  these  words  hath  there  hitherto  been  the  best  lying 
and  dissembling,  and  especially  by  those  who  have  been 
burdensome  to  every  one. 


200  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  III 

And  verily,  it  is  no  commandment  for  to-day  and  to- 
morrow to  learn  to  love  oneself.  Rather  is  it  of  all  arts 
the  finest,  subtlest,  last  and  patientest. 

For  to  its  possessor  is  all  possession  well  concealed,  and 
of  all  treasure-pits  one's  own  is  last  excavated — so  causeth 
the  spirit  of  gravity. 

Almost  in  the  cradle  are  we  apportioned  with  heavy 
words  and  worths:  "good"  and  "evil" — so  calleth  itself 
this  dowry.    For  the  sake  of  it  we  are  forgiven  for  living. 

And  therefore  suffereth  one  little  children  to  come  unto 
one,  to  forbid  them  betimes  to  love  themselves — so  causeth 
the  spirit  of  gravity. 

And  we — we  bear  loyally  what  is  apportioned  unto  us, 
on  hard  shoulders,  over  rugged  mountains!  And  when 
we  sweat,  then  do  people  say  to  us:  "Yea,  life  is  hard 
to  bear!'' 

But  man  himself  only  is  hard  to  bear!  The  reason 
thereof  is  that  he  carrieth  too  many  extraneous  things  on 
his  shoulders.  Like  the  camel  kneeleth  he  down,  and  let- 
teth  himself  be  well  laden. 

Especially  the  strong  load-bearing  man  in  whom  rever- 
ence resideth.  Too  many  extraneous  heavy  words  and 
worths  loadeth  he  upon  himself — then  seemeth  life  to  him 
a  desert! 

And  verily!  Many  a  thing  also  that  is  our  own  is  hard 
to  bear!  And  many  internal  things  in  man  are  like  the 
oyster — repulsive  and  slippery  and  hard  to  grasp; — 

So  that  an  elegant  shell,  with  elegant  adornment,  must 
plead  for  them.  But  this  art  also  must  one  learn:  to  have 
a  shell,  and  a  fine  appearance,  and  sagacious  blindness! 

Again,  it  deceiveth  about  many  things  in  man,  that  many 
a  shell  is  poor  and  pitiable,  and  too  much  of  a  shell.  Much 
concealed  goodness  and  power  is  never  dreamt  of;  the 
choicest  dainties  find  no  tasters! 

Women  know  that,  the  choicest  of  them:  a  little  fatter, 
a  little  leaner — oh,  how  much  fate  is  in  so  little! 

Man  is  difficult  to  discover,  and  unto  himself  most  diffi- 
cult of  all;  often  lieth  the  spirit  concerning  the  soul.  So 
causeth  the  spirit  of  gravity. 

He,  however,  hath  discovered  himself  who  saith:  This  is 


LV— THE  SPIRIT  OF  GRAVITY 


201 


^y  good  and  evil:  therewith  hath^ he  silenced  the  mole  and 
Z  Hwarf  who  say:  "Good  for  all,  evil  for  all. 
Eerily,  Ar  do  I  like  those  who  ca«  everything  gc^, 
and  Ulis  world  the  best  of  all.    Those  do  I  call  the  all- 

^^ ?!? ^tisfiedness  which  knoweth  how  to  taste  everything, 

Ä  not  the  bist  taste!  I  honour  the  refractory,  fa^ 
Sdious  toSes  and  stomachs,  which  have  learned  to  say 
"T"  and  "Yea"  and  "Nay."  .    ^   .     .,  ^ 

V:  chew  and  digest  everything,  how^ver-that  is  Ae 
genuine  swine-nature!  Ever  to  say  YE-A-that  hath  only 
the  ass  learnt,  and  those  like  it!—  .^^^.^m  mW- 

Deep  yellow  and  hot  red-so  wanteth  my  tast^-it  mix- 
eth  bbod  with  all  colours.  He,  however,  who  whjtewasheth 
his  house  betrayeth  unto  me  a  whitewashed  soul. 

Witr«ks,  some  fall  in  love;  others  J^th  Phan- 
tomsfboA  alike  hostile  to  all  fl^h  and  blood-oh,  how 
reouenant  are  both  to  my  taste!    For  I  love  blood. 

K  Sere^Su  I  not  reside  and  abide  where  every  one 
spUteÄspeweth:  that  is  now  ^^  taste^'^f  ^..^^^ 
I  live  amongst  thieves  and  perjurers.     Nobody  cametn 

n'tiir  m^Cugnant  unto  me   however    a^alMick- 

spittles;  and  the  most  repugnant  .f  ^"^^i/^'^^S^HnJ 
found,  did  I  christen  "parasite":  it  would  not  love,  ana 

^  uÄ"do  Wrall  those  who  W^ly^one^^- 
either  to  become  evil  beasts,  or  evil  beast-tamers.  Amongst 
such  would  I  not  build  my  tabernacle. 

UnhTpy  do  I  also  call  those  who  have  ever  to  watt,-- 
theva?e  repugnant  to  my  taste-all  the  toll-gatherers  and 
Sei  aiTkfngs,  and  otL  ^-dkeepers  and  s^P^^^^^^ 

Verily,  I  learned  waiting  also,  and  thoroughly  so,  but 
onlv  Stine  for  myselj.  And  above  all  did  I  learn  stand- 
Ll^nd  Äg  and  inning  and  leaping  and  climbing 

^"xÄowever  is  my  teaching:  he  who  wisheth  one  day 
to  %  S  firs?  Jm  stanJng  and  walking  and  run- 
ning and  climbing  and  dancing:-one  doth  not  fly  into 
flying ! 


I'fl 


202  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  III 

With  rope-ladders  learned  I  to  reach  many  a  window 
with  nimble  legs  did  I  climb  high  masts:  to  sit  on  high 
masts  of  perception  seemed  to  me  no  small  bliss; — 
^  — To  flicker  like  small  flames  on  high  masts:  a  small 
light,  certainly,  but  a  great  comfort  to  cast-away  sailors 
and  shipwrecked  ones! 

By  divers  ways  and  wendings  did  I  arrive  at  my  truth; 
not  by  one  ladder  did  I  mount  to  the  height  where  mine 
eye  roveth  into  my  remoteness. 

And  unwillingly  only  did  I  ask  my  way-^that  was  al- 
ways counter  to  my  taste!  Rather  did  I  question  and  test 
the  ways  themselves. 

A  testing  and  a  questioning  hath  been  all  my  travelling: 
—and  verily,  one  must  also  learn  to  answer  such  ques- 
tioning!    That,  however, — is  my  taste: 

—Neither  a  good  nor  a  bad  taste,  but  my  taste,  of  which 
I  have  no  longer  either  shame  or  secrecy. 

"This — is  now  my  way, — where  is  yours?"  Thus  did  I 
answer  those  who  asked  me  "the  way."  For  the  way— it 
doth  not  exist! 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


LVI— OLD  AND  NEW  TABLES 


203 


LVI.— OLD  AND  NEW  TABLES 

I. 

Here  do  I  sit  and  wait,  old  broken  tables  around  me 
and  also  new  half-written  tables.    When  cometh  mine  hour? 

— The  hour  of  my  descent,  of  my  down-going:  for  once 
more  will  I  go  unto  men. 

For  that  hour  do  I  now  wait:  for  first  must  the  signs  come 
unto  me  that  it  is  mine  hour — namely,  the  laughing  lion 
with  the  flock  of  doves. 

Meanwhile  do  I  talk  to  myself  as  one  who  hath  time. 
No  one  telleth  me  anything  new,  so  I  tell  myself  mine 
own  story. 


2. 


When  I  came  unto  men,  then  found  I  them  resting  on 
an  old  infatuation:  all  of  them  thought  they  had  long  known 
what  was  good  and  bad  for  men. 

An  old  wearisome  business  seemed  to  them  a  discourse 
about  virtue;  and  he  who  wished  to  sleep  well  spake  of 
"eood"  and  "bad"  ere  retiring  to  rest.  , .  .u  .     . 

This  somnolence  did  I  disturb  when  I  taught  that  no 
one  yet  knoweth  what  is  good  and  bad:-unless  it  be  the 

'''ÄTe,^owever,  who  createth  man's  goal,  and  giveth 
to  the  earth  its  meaning  and  its  future:  he  only  efjecteth 

"  Z  Ä'tlStu^?  toir  old  academic  cbairs  a.d 

wherever  that  old  infatuation  had  sat;  I  bade  them  laugh 
Tt  their  g^^^^^  moralists,  their  saints,  their  poets,  and  their 

^^ATTheir  gloomy  sages  did  I  bid  them  laugh,  and  who- 
ever  had  sat  admonishing  as  a  black  scarecrow  on  the  tree 

'^  On'' their  great  grave-highway  did  I  ^e^^  mys^^^^^^^ 
even  beside  the  carrion  and  vultures-and  I  laughed  at 
all  their  bygone  and  its  mellow  decaying  glory. 

Verily,  like  penitential  preachers  and  fools  did  I  cry 
wrath  and  shame  on  all  their  greatness  an^  ^^.^^^^^^ 
that  their  best  is  so  very  small!     Oh,  that  their  worst  is 
so  verv  small!    Thus  did  I  laugh. 

Thus^d  my  wise  longing,  born  in  the  mountains,  c^ 
and  laugh  in  me;  a  wild  wisdom,  verily!-my  great  pmion- 

"^Srr/it  carry  me  off  and  up  and  a^ay  and  in 
the  midst  of  laughter;  then  flew  I  quivermg  like  an  arrow 

with  sun-intoxicated  rapture:  _  1,^,1,  „pt  cppn 

-Out  into  distant  futures,  which  no  dream  hath  yet  seen 

into  warmer  souths  than  ever  sculptor  conceived, -where 

gods  in  their  dancing  are  ashamed  of  all  clothes. 

(That  I  may  speak  in  parables  and  halt  and  stammer  like 

the  poets:  and  Jerily  I  am  ashamed  that  I  have  still  to 

be  a  poet!) 


204  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  III 

Where  all  becoming  seemed  to  me  dancing  of  Gods,  and 
wantoning  of  Gods,  and  the  world  unloosed  and  imbridled 
and  fleeing  back  to  itself: — 

— ^As  an  eternal  self-fleeing  and  re-seeking  of  one  an- 
other of  many  Gods,  as  the  blessed  self-contradicting,  re- 
communing,  and  refraternising  with  one  another  of  many 
Gods: — 

Where  all  time  seemed  to  me  a  blessed  mockery  of  mo- 
ments, where  necessity  was  freedom  itself,  which  played 
happily  with  the  goad  of  freedom: — 

Where  I  also  found  again  mine  old  devil  and  arch-enemy, 
the  spirit  of  gravity,  and  all  that  it  created:  constraint,  law, 
necessity  and  consequence  and  purpose  and  will  and  good 
and  evil: — 

For  must  there  not  be  that  which  is  danced  over,  danced 
beyond?  Must  there  not,  for  the  sake  of  the  nimble,  the 
nimblest, — be  moles  and  clumsy  dwarfs? — 


LVI— OLD  AND  NEW  TABLES 


2a^ 


There  was  it  also  where  I  picked  up  from  the  path  the 
word  "Superman,"  and  that  man  is  something  that  must  be 
surpassed. 

— ^That  man  is  a  bridge  and  not  a  goal — rejoicing  over  his 
noontides  and  evenings,  as  advances  to  new  rosy  dawns: 

— The  Zarathustra  word  of  the  great  noontide,  and  what- 
ever else  I  have  hung  up  over  men  like  purple  evening-after- 
glows. 

Verily,  also  new  stars  did  I  make  them  see,  along  with 
new  nights ;  and  over  cloud  ar  "  day  and  night,  did  I  spread 
out  laughter  like  a  gay-coloui . .  canopy. 

I  taught  them  all  my  poetisation  and  aspiration:  to  com- 
pjose  and  collect  into  unity  what  is  fragment  in  man,  and 
riddle  and  fearful  chance; — 

— ^As  composer,  riddle-reader,  and  redeemer  of  chance, 
did  I  teach  them  to  create  the  future,  and  all  that  hath  been 
— to  redeem  by  creating. 

The  past  of  man  to  redeem,  and  every  "It  was"  to  trans- 
form, until  the  Will  saith:  "But  so  did  I  will  itl  So  shall 
I  will  it—" 


-This  did  I  call  redemption;  this  alone  taught  I  them  to 
^'Vof  Ä^^  redemption-that  I  may  go  unto 

X'o'n^'I'S  ^Ti  go  unto  men:  «-.«ir«  *-  -U  -^ 
sun  set-  in  dying  will  I  give  them  my  choicest  gift! 

Fr^m  tie  sun  did  I  learn  this,  when  it  goeth  down,  the 
exuberant  one:  gold  doth  it  then  pour  into  the  sea,  out  of 

''^Ä^^^  fisherman  roweth  even  with  golden 

oars!    For  this  did  I  once  see,  and  did  not  tire  of  weeping  m 

^tÄ^^^  also  Zarathustra  go  down:  now  sitteth 

he  here  and  w^trth,  old  broken  tables  around  him,  and  also 
new  tables — ^half-written. 


Behold,  here  is  a  new  table-  but  where  «xe  my  bretiren 
who  will  carry  it  with  me  to  the  valley  and  mto  hearts  of 

^""xhiirdemandeth  my  great  love  to  the  remotest  on^''*/ 
not  considerate  of  thy  neighbourt    Man  is  something  that 

"  TheTe '^r?  m^y  divers  ways  and  modes  of  surpassing: 
see  S  thereToTßut  only  a  buffoon  thinketh:  «man  can 

'^'sumaSÄ'even  in  thy  neighbour:  and  a  right  which 
thouTn'SuiS;'.  Shalt  tU  lot  allow  to  be  giv^n  thee 
What  thou  doest  can  no  one  do  to  thee  again.    Lo,  tnere 

'""  nVÄnnot  command  himself  shall  obey  And  many 
a  "ne  can  Command  himself,  but  still  sorely  lacketh  self- 
obedience  1 


Thus  wisheth  the  type  of  noble  sotüs:  they  desire  to 

have  nothing  gratuitously,  least  of  aU  lite.  .       ,. 

He  who  is  of  the  populace  wisheth  to  hve  gratuitously, 


206 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  III 


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207 


we  others,  however,  to  whom  life  hath  given  itself — we  are 
ever  considering  what  we  can  best  give  in  return  I 

And  verily,  it  is  a  noble  dictum  which  saith:  "What  life 
promiseth  us,  that  promise  will  we  keep — to  life!'' 

One  should  not  wish  to  enjoy  where  one  doth  not  con- 
tribute to  the  enjoyment.  And  one  should  not  wish  to 
enjoy  1 

For  enjoyment  and  innocence  are  the  most  bashful  things. 
Neither  like  to  be  sought  for.  One  should  have  them,— but 
one  should  rather  seek  for  guilt  and  pain! — 

6. 

O  my  brethren,  he  who  is  a  firstling  is  ever  sacrificed. 
Now,  however,  are  we  firstlings! 

We  all  bleed  on  secret  sacrificial  altars,  we  all  burn  and 
broil  in  honour  of  ancient  idols. 

Our  best  is  still  young:  this  exciteth  old  palates.  Our 
flesh  is  tender,  our  skin  is  only  lambs'  skin: — how  could  we 
not  excite  old  idol-priests ! 

In  ourselves  dwelleth  he  still,  the  old  idol-priest,  who 
broileth  our  best  for  his  banquet.  Ah,  my  brethren,  how 
could  firstlings  fail  to  be  sacrifices! 

But  so  wisheth  our  type;  and  I  love  those  who  do  not 
wish  to  preserve  themselves,  the  down-going  ones  do  I  love 
with  mine  entire  love:  for  they  go  beyond. — 


To  be  true — that  can  few  be!  And  he  who  can,  will  not! 
Least  of  all,  however,  can  the  good  be  true. 

Oh,  those  good  ones!  Good  men  never  speak  the  truth. 
For  the  spirit,  thus  to  be  good,  is  a  malady. 

They  yield,  those  good  ones,  they  submit  themselves; 
their  heart  repeateth,  their  soul  obeyeth:  he,  however,  who 
obeyeth,  doth  not  listen  to  himself! 

All  that  is  called  evil  by  the  good,  must  come  together  in 
order  that  one  truth  may  be  born.  O  my  brethren,  are  ye 
also  evil  enough  for  this  truth? 


The  daring  venture,  the  prolonged  distrust,  the  cruel  Nay, 
the  tedium,  the  cutting-into-the-quick— how  seldom  Ao  these 
come  together!     Out  of  such  seed,  however— is  truth  pro- 

^%side  the  bad  conscience  hath  hitherto  grown  all  knowU 
edge!  Break  up,  break  up,  ye  discerning  ones,  the  old 
tables! 

8. 

When  the  water  hath  planks,  when  gangways  and  rail- 
ings o'erspan  the  stream,  verily,  he  is  not  believed  who  then 

^^But  even  the  simpletons  contradict  him.  "What?"  say 
the  simpletons,  "all  in  flux?     Planks  and  railings  are  still 

oi;er  the  stream ! "  .         , 

^'Over  the  stream  all  is  stable,  all  the  values  of  things,  the 
bridges  and  bearings,  all  ^good'  and  ^evil':   these  are  all 

^  ^Cometh,  however,  the  hard  winter,  the  stream-tamer, 
then  learn  even  the  wittiest  distrust,  and  verily,  not  only  the 
simpletons  then  say:    "Should  not  eyerythmg-^^a^^  stül? 

"Fundamentally  standeth  everything  still"— that  is  an 
appropriate  winter  doctrine,  good  cheer  for  an  unproductive 
period,  a  great  comfort  for  winter-sleepers  and  fireside- 

^"""^Tundamentally  standeth  everything  still"—:  but  con- 
trary  thereto,  preacheth  the  thawing  wind!        ,      , .      ,    , 
The  thawing  wind,  a  bullock,  which  is  no  ploughing  bul- 
lock— a  furious  bullock,   a  destroyer,  which  with  angry 
horns  breaketh  the  ice!     The  ice  however breaketk 

^"^O^m^  brethren,  is  not  everything  at  present  in  flux? 
Have  not  all  railings  and  gangways  fallen  into  the  water? 
Who  would  still  hold  on  to  "good"  and    evil  ? 

"Woe  to  us!     Hail  to  us!     The  thawing  wind  blowethi 
—Thus  preach,  my  brethren,  through  all  the  streets! 


2o8  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  III 


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209 


There  is  an  old  illusion — it  is  called  good  and  evil. 
Around  soothsayers  and  astrologers  hath  hitherto  revolved 
the  orbit  of  this  illusion. 

Once  did  one  believe  in  soothsayers  and  astrologers;  and 
therefore  did  one  believe,  "Everything  is  fate:  thou  shalt, 
for  thou  must!" 

Then  again  did  one  distrust  all  soothsayers  and  astrolo- 
gers; and  therefore  did  one  believe,  "Everything  is  freedom: 
thou  canst,  for  thou  wiliest!" 

O  my  brethren,  concerning  the  stars  and  the  future  there 
hath  hitherto  been  only  illusion,  and  not  knowledge;  and 
therefore  concerning  good  and  evil  there  hath  hitherto  been 
only  illusion  and  not  knowledge! 


10. 

//  "Thou  shalt  not  rob!  Thou  shalt  not  slay!"— such  pre- 
cepts were  once  called  holy;  before  them  did  one  bow  the 
knee  and  the  head,  and  took  off  one's  shoes. 

But  I  ask  you:  Where  have  there  ever  been  better  rob- 
bers and  slayers  in  the  world  than  such  holy  precepts? 

Is  there  not  even  in  all  life — robbing  and  slaying?  And 
for  such  precepts  to  be  called  holy,  was  not  truth  itself 
thereby — slain? 

— Or  was  it  a  sermon  of  death  that  called  holy  what  con- 
tradicted and  dissuaded  from  life? — O  my  brethren,  break 
up,  break  up  for  me  the  old  tables  1^/ 

II. 

It  is  my  sympathy  with  all  the  past  that  I  see  it  is  aban- 
doned,— 

— ^Abandoned  to  the  favour,  the  spirit  and  the  madness  of 
every  generation  that  cometh,  and  reinterpreteth  all  that 
hath  been  as  its  bridge! 

A  great  potentate  might  arise,  an  artful  prodigy,  who 
j¥ith  approval  and  disapproval  could  strain  and  constrain 


all  the  past,  until  it  became  for  him  a  bridge,  a  harbmger, 

^S^ÄrÄTS  dagger,  and  nm,e  other  sym- 
oaAy  -Who  is  of  the  populace  his  thoughts  go  back 
to  his  grandfather,-with  his  grandfather,  however,  doth 

"^"^huns'all  the  past  abandoned:  for  it  might  some  day 
happS  for  the  populace  to  become  master,  and  drown  all 

"^T^Sefor?^^^^  a  r^ew  r^obuHy  is  needed  which 

shKS  adversary  of  all  populace  and  potentate  rule, 

God!" 

12. 

n  m«  hrethren  I  consecrate  you  and  point  you  to  a  new 
„oSlHy :  ye  shS  beime  procreators  and  cultivators  and 

"!!ve?L*notTa7obility  which  ye  could  pur^ase  like 
tradeTsÄ  traders'  gold;  for  littie  worth  is  aU  that  hath 

'%^/Mt  not  be  your  honour  henceforth  whence  ye  come, 
but  wWtTr'ye'g^!     Your  Will  and  VO-  f eet  -hxch  seek 

re"Ä-Ä  Ä  in  courtie.;   ajd  d. 
courüis  believe  that  unto  blessedness  after  death  per- 

^ÄtllÄÄ  S>i:l-Ä'S.d"  there  is 
nothing  to  praise!— 


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THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  III 


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211 


—And  verily,  wherever  this  "Holy  Spirit"  led  its  knights 
always  in  such  campaigns  did— goats  and  geese,  and  wrv- 
neads  and  guy-heads  run  foremost  I — 

O  my  brethren,  not  backward  shall  your  nobility  gaze 
but  outward t  Exiles  shall  ye  be  from  all  fatherlands  and 
forefather-lands ! 

Your  children's  land  shall  ye  love:  let  this  love  be  your 
new  nobihty,— the  undiscovered  in  the  remotest  seas!  For 
It  do  I  bid  your  sails  search  and  search! 

Unto  your  children  shall  ye  make  amends  for  being  the 
children  of  your  fathers:  all  the  past  shall  ye  thus  redeem! 
Ihis  new  table  do  I  place  over  youl 

13- 

"Why  should  one  live?  All  is  vain!  To  live— that  is  to 
thrash  straw;  to  live— that  is  to  burn  oneself  and  vet  not 
get  warm." —  ' 

Such  ancient  babbling  still  passeth  for  "wisdom";  because 
It  IS  old,  however,  and  smelleth  mustily,  therefore  is  it  the 
more  honoured.      Even  mould  ennobleth.— 

Children  might  thus  speak:  they  shun  the  fire  because  it 
hath  burnt  them!  There  is  much  childishness  in  the  old 
books  of  wisdom. 

And  he  who  ever  "thrasheth  straw,"  why  should  he  be  al- 
lowed to  rail  at  thrashing!  Such  a  fool  one  would  have  to 
muzzle ! 

Such  persons  sit  down  to  the  table  and  bring  nothing  with 
them,  not  even  good  hunger:— and  then  do  they  rail:  "All 
is  vain!" 

But  to  eat  and  drink  well,  my  brethren,  is  verily  no  vain 
art!  Break  up,  break  up  for  me  the  tables  of  the  never- 
joyous  ones! 

"To  the  clean  are  all  things  clean"— thus  say  the  people. 
I,  however,  say  unto  you:  To  the  swine  all  things  become 
swinish! 

Therefore  preach  the  visionaries  and  bowed-heads  (whose 


hearts  are  also  bowed  down) :    "The  world  itself  is  a  filthy 

'tI  tÄfsT.'^t "«" ^*Äi  Ttri 

pleasantly:  the  world  resembleth  man,  m  that  it  hath  a 

^^^-r^n  r tÖÄch  fflth:  .0  muck  is  tnte.    But 
the  world  itself  is  not  therefore  a  filthy  monster! 
%her    is  Ssdom  in  the  fact  that  much  in  the  world  s^^- 
eth  badly:   loathing  itself  createth  wings,  and  fountain- 

'"ÄShere  is  still  something  to  loathe;  and  the  best 
is  still  something  that  must  be  surpassed!- 
O  my  brethren,  there  is  much  wisdom  in  the  tact  mat 

much  filth  is  in  the  world!— 

IS- 

Such  sayings  did  I  hear  pious  backworldsmen  speak  to 

their  cons^nL,  and  verily  -without  .^tAe^wo'Sf'^ 
although  there  is  nothing  more  guileful  m  the  world,  or 

"^''Lefthf world  be  as  it  is!    Raise  not  a  finger  against 

^"'^et  whoever  will  choke  and  stab  and  «kin  ^^  sy^e 
people:  raise  not  a  finger  against  it!     Thereby  will  tney 

learn  to  renounce  the  world."  tlivself  stifle 

"And  thine  own  reason-this  shalt  thou  ^hy^df  stifle 

and  choke;  for  it  is  a  reason  of  this  world,-thereby  wilt 

thou  learn  thyself  to  renounce  the  world   — 
-Shatter,  shatter,  O  my  brethren,  *of^°  f  ^f^^^^l^* 

the  pious!    Tatter  the  maxims  of  the  world-maligners! 

i6. 

«He  who  leameth  much  unlearneth  all  violent  cravings" 
-that  Tpeople  now  whisper  to  one  another  in  all  the  dark 
lanes. 


212 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  III 


"Wisdom  wearieth,  nothing  is  worth  while;  thou  shaJt 
not  crave!"— this  new  table  found  I  hanging  even  in  the 
public  markets. 

.  iS^f^J^P  ^^^  ^^'  ^  ^y  brethren,  break  up  also  that  new 
tablel  The  weary-o'- the- world  put  it  up,  and  the  preachers 
of  death  and  the  jailer:  for  lo,  it  is  also  a  sermon  for 
slavery: — 

Because  they  learned  badly  and  not  the  best,  and  every- 
thing too  early  and  everything  too  fast;  because  they  ate 
badly:  from  thence  hath  resulted  their  ruined  stomach;— 

—For  a  ruined  stomach,  is  their  spirit:  it  persuadeth  to 
death!    For  verily,  my  brethren,  the  spirit  is  a  stomach! 

Life  IS  a  well  of  delight,  but  to  him  in  whom  the  ruined 
stomach  speaketh,  the  father  of  affliction,  aU  fountains  are 
poisoned. 

To  discern:  that  is  delight;  to  the  lion-willed!  But  he 
who  hath  become  weary,  is  himself  merely  "willed":  with 
him  play  all  the  waves. 

And  such  is  always  the  nature  of  weak  men:  they  lose 
themselves  on  their  way.  And  at  last  asketh  their  weari- 
ness: "Why  did  we  ever  go  on  the  way?  All  is  indif- 
ferent!" 

To  them  soundeth  it  pleasant  to  have  preached  in  their 
ears:    "Nothing  is  worth  while!    Ye  shall  not  will!"    That 
however,  is  a  sermon  for  slavery.  ' 

O  my  brethren,  a  fresh  blustering  wind  cometh  Zara- 
thustra  unto  all  way-weary  ones;  many  noses  will  he  yet 
make  sneeze! 

Even  through  walls  bloweth  my  free  breath,  and  in  into 
prisons  and  imprisoned  spirits! 

Willing  emancipateth:  for  willing  is  creating:  so  do  I 
teach.    And  only  for  creating  shall  ye  learn ! 

And  also  the  learning  shall  ye  learn  only  from  me,  the 
learning  well!— He  who  hath  ears  let  him  hear! 

17. 

^  There  standeth  the  boat— thither  goeth  it  over,  perhaps 
into  vast  nothingness— but  who  willeth  to  enter  into  this 
"Perhaps"? 


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213 


None  of  you  want  to  enter  into  the  death-boatl     Ho« 
*°"W  ye  *en  be J-M^^  »-J  ^^  ^  ,„„ 

ü.e'ÄT  ^ge  "Sd  1  ever  Snd  you  for  the  earth,  amorous 

wifh   tiU  sllteth  thereonl    And   " /»«  f^""«"*  *"' 

liltlS  Z^sl  useful  at  the  »^^  a™- -^P'^^; 

"^^rTyeÄ'inÄ  or  decr^'' "-'Stv°'Ä 

^ÄSS'shaU  one  not  seek  «.  be  a  physidan: 

.h^°tSd>:.h  Za-*-™-r  *iri^Ti'  .0  make 
But  more  cowage  is  needed  to  make  an  eno  tran  _ 

a  new  verse:  that  do  all  physicians  and  poets  know  weu. 

.?S&»s£SIÄ^iSSi 

although  they  speak  similarly,  they  want  10  uc 

ferently. —  „  ,       cnnn-breadth  is  he  from 

his'To^ThÄfÄLs'SrhÄU  obstinately 

in  the  dust,  this  brave  onel  ^     ^ 

.Ä.3TSf  n^:  -2;  Ä«'wiU  he  ,0,- 
this  brave  one!  ,    ,     ^       1:^]^^  ^t  his 

3^7  Ä^trlÄSiro?^"?^  S  preferreth 

■"-rllli-breadth  from  his  goal,  to  UngnishI    Venny,  ye 


214  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  III 

h2ad-üiVhe?of  ^"^  '"**"  ^'  ^'^'''"  ^y  ^'  ^^''  °f  h^ 
Better  still  that  ye  let  him  lie  where  he  hath  lain  down 
that  sleep  may  come  unto  him,  the  comforter,  with  cooling 
patter-ram.  «"uug 

Let  him  lie,  until  of  his  own  accord  he  awakeneth,— until 
of  his  own  accord  he  repudiateth  all  weariness,  and  what 
wearmess  hath  taught  through  him! 

Only,  my  brethren,  see  that  ye  scare  the  dogs  away  from 
him,  the  idle  skulkers,  and  all  the  swarming  vermin-— 

—All  the  swarming  vermin  of  the  "cultured."  that— feasf 
on  the  sweat  of  every  hero!— 

19. 

I  form  circles  around  me  and  holy  boundaries:  ever 
fewer  ascend  with  me  ever  higher  mountains:  I  build  a 
mountain-range  out  of  ever  holier  mountains.— 

But  wherever  ye  would  ascend  with  me,  O  my  brethren 
take  care  lest  a  parasite  ascend  with  you!  ' 

A  parasite:  that  is  a  reptile,  a  creeping,  cringing  reptile, 
that  trieth  to  fatten  on  your  infirm  and  sore  places. 

And  this  is  its  art:  it  divineth  where  ascending  souls  are 
weary  in  your  trouble  and  dejection,  in  your  sensitive  mod- 
esty, doth  it  build  its  loathsome  nest. 

Where  the  strong  are  weak,  where  the  noble  are  all-too- 
gentle-there  buildeth  it  its  loathsome  nest;  the  parasite 
hveth  where  the  great  have  small  sore-places. 

What  is  the  highest  of  all  species  of  being,  and  what  is 
the  lowest?  The  parasite  is  the  lowest  species;  he,  however, 
who  IS  of  the  highest  species  feedeth  most  parasites 

For  the  soul  which  hath  the  longest  ladder,  and  can  go 

deepest  down:  how  could  there  fail  to  be  most  parasites 
upon  It? —  ^ 

—The  most  comprehensive  soul,  which  can  run  and  stray 
and  rove  furthest  in  itself;  the  most  necessary  soul,  which 
out  of  joy  flingeth  itself  into  chance:— 

—The  soul  in  Being,  which  plungeth  into  Becoming;  the 
possessing  soul,  which  seeketh  to  attain  desire  and  long- 
uig: —  ° 


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215 


—The  soul  fleeing  from  itself,  which  overtaketh  itself  in 
the  widest  circuit;  the  wisest  soul,  unto  which  folly  speaketh 

"""^^The'fourmost  self-loving,  in  which  all  things  have 
their  current  and  counter-current,  their  ebb  and  their  flow: 
Z^h,  how  could  the  loftiest  soul  fail  to  have  the  worst 
parasites? 

20. 

O  my  brethren,  am  I  then  cruel?  But  I  say:  What 
falleth.  that  shall  one  also  push!  ,       ,  ij 

Everything  of  to-day-it  falleth,  it  decayeth;  who  would 
nreserve  it!    But  I— I  wish  also  to  push  it! 

Know  ye  the  delight  which  roUeth  stones  into  precipitous 
depths?-Those  men  of  to-day,  see  just  how  they  roll  into 

""  A^^p^dude  am  I  to  better  players,  O  my  brethren!     An 
examole'    Do  according  to  mine  example! 
aZ  him  whom  ye  do  not  teach  to  fly,  teach  I  pray  you 

—to  fall  faster!— 


f: 


/ 


21. 


I  love  the  brave:  but  it  is  not  enough  to  be  a  swordsman, 
—one  must  also  know  whereon  to  use  swordsmanship! 

And  often  is  it  greater  bravery  to  keep  quiet  and  pass 
by,  that  thereby  one  may  reserve  oneself  for  a  worthier 

•  Ye  shall  only  have  foes  to  be  hated;  but  not  Joes  to  Jse 
despised:  ye  must  be  proud  of  your  foes.    Thus  have  I 

'^Tor^Worthier  foe,  O  my  brethren,  shall  ye  reserve 
yourselves:  therefore  must  ye  pass  by  many  a  one,— 

-Especially  many  of  the  rabble,  who  din  your  ears  with 
noise  about  people  and  peoples.  ,  .     •    . ,     t^i,«,^  .v 

Keep  your  eye  dear  of  thdr  For  and  Against!  There  is 
there  much  right,  much  wrong:  he  who  looketh  on  becometh 

""'Therein  viewing,  therein  hewing-they  are  the  same 
thing:  therefore  depart  into  the  forests  and  lay  your  sword 
to  sleep! 


2l6 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  III 


LVI— OLD  AND  NEW  TABLES 


217 


Go  your  ways!  and  let  the  people  and  peoples  go  theirs' 
—gloomy  ways,  verily,  on  which  not  a  smgle  hope  glinteth 
any  morel  r-    o        lu 

Let  there  the  trader  rule,  where  all  that  still  glittereth  is 
—traders'  gold.  It  is  the  time  of  kings  no  longer:  that 
which  now  calleth  itself  the  people  is  unworthy  of  kings 

See  how  these  peoples  themselves  now  do  just  like  the 
traders:  they  pick  up  the  smallest  advantage  out  of  all 
kmds  of  rubbish  I 

They  lay  lures  for  one  another,  they  lure  things  out  of 
one  another,— that  they  call  "good  neighbourliness."  0 
blessed  remote  period  when  a  people  said  to  itself:  "I  will 
be — master  over  peoples!" 

For,  my  brethren,  the  best  shall  rule,  the  best  also  wUleth 
to  rulel  And  where  the  teaching  is  different,  there— the 
best  ts  lacking. 

22. 

If  they  had— bread  for  nothing,  alas!  for  what  would 
they  cryl  Their  maintainment— that  is  their  true  enter- 
tamment;  and  they  shall  have  it  hard! 

Beasts  of  prey,  are  they:  in  their  "working"— there  is 
even  plundering,  in  their  "earning"— there  is  even  over- 
reachmgl    Therefore  shall  they  have  it  hard! 

Better  beasts  of  prey  shall  they  thus  become,  subtler, 

rf^u  '^''^  man-like:  for  man  is  the  best  beast  of  prey. 

All  the  animals  hath  man  already  robbed  of  their  virtues: 
that  is  why  of  all  animals  it  hath  been  hardest  for  man 

Only  the  birds  are  still  beyond  him.  And  if  man  should 
yet  learn  to  fly,  alas!  to  what  height— ytoyHA  his  rapacity 

n- 

Thus  would  I  have  man  and  woman:  fit  for  war,  the  one- 
fit  for  maternity,  the  other;  both,  however,  fit  for  dancing 
with  head  and  legs. 

And  lost  be  the  day  to  us  in  which  a  measure  hath  not 
been  danced.  And  false  be  every  truth  which  hath  not 
had  laughter  along  with  it! 


24. 

Your  marriage-arranging:  see  that  it  be  not  a  bad  arrang- 
i„Jl    Yehavt  arranged  too  hastily:   so  there  followeth 

Xn^^trSiagÄing   than   -rriageWmg, 
„^irriage-lvine!— Thus  spake  a  woman  unto  me:    "Indeed 
Ke  thTmarriage,  but  first  did  the  marriage  break-mel " 

The  badW  paired  found  I  ever  the  most  revengeful:  they 
male  eveS  oSe  suffer  for  it  that  they  no  longer  run  singly 

ol  thl7account  want  I  the  honest  ones  to  say  ^  one 

another-     "We  love  each  other:  let  us  see  ^^  *f  that  we 

maintain  our  love!     Or  shall  our  pledging  be  blundering? 
mamtam  our  10  ^  ^^^^^  ^^^.^^^^  ^^^^ 

seeTf  we  are  fit  for  the  great  marriage!    It  is  a  great  matter 

^^TÄ'V"otk  all  honest  ones;  and  what  would  be 
my  bve  to  the  Superman,  and  to  all  that  is  to  come,  if  I 

^t;^  Xä  pÄ  y-tl  onwards  but  u^ 
-thereto,  O  my  brethren,  may  the  garden  of  marriage 
help  you! 

25- 

He  who  hath  grown  wise  ^of  «^«™f  °1**  °^^^^^^ 
will  at  last  seek  after  the  fountains  of  the  future  and  new 

T  mTbrethren,  not  long  will  it  be  until  new  Peoplessh^^^ 
arise  and  new  fountains  shall  rush  down  into  new  depths. 

For  the  eanhquake-it  choketh  up  many  wel  s,  it  causeth 
much  llnguSL^^^^^^  it  bringeth  also  to  light  inner  powers 

'"ThTefrAquake  discloseth  new  fountains.    In  the  earth- 

'^'t^^l^t^r:^^^  ^or  m.y 

thiVstv  ones  one  heart  for  many  longing  ones,  one  will  for 
S^%Sments":-around  him  coUecteth  a  people,  that 
is  to  say,  many  attempting  ones. 


2i8  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  III 

Who  can  command,  who  must  obey— that  is  there  at 
tempted!  Ah,  with  what  long  seeking  and  solving  and 
failmg  and  learning  and  re-attempting! 

Human  society:  it  is  an  attempt— so  I  teach— a  long 
seekmg:  it  seeketh  however  the  ruler!— 

—An  attempt,  my  brethren!  And  no  "contract''!  De- 
stroy,  I  pray  you,  destroy  that  word  of  the  soft-hearted  and 
half-and-half! 

26. 

O  my  brethren!  With  whom  lieth  the  greatest  danger  to 
the  whole  human  future?  Is  it  not  with  the  good  and 
just? — 

— ^As  those  who  say  and  feel  in  their  hearts:  "We  al- 
ready know  what  is  good  and  just,  we  possess  it  also;  woe 
to  those  who  still  seek  thereafter! " 

And  whatever  harm  the  wicked  may  do,  the  harm  of  the 
good  is  the  harmf ulest  harm ! 

And  whatever  harm  the  world-maligners  may  do,  the 
harm  of  the  good  is  the  harmf  ulest  harm ! 

O  my  brethren,  into  the  hearts  of  the  good  and  just 
looked  some  one  once  on  a  time,  who  said:  "They  are 
the  Pharisees."    But  people  did  not  understand  him. 

The  good  and  just  themselves  were  not  free  to  under- 
stand him;  their  spirit  was  imprisoned  in  their  good  con- 
science.    The  stupidity  of  the  good  is  unfathomably  wise. 

It  is  the  truth,  however,  that  the  good  must  be  Pharisees 
— they  have  no  choice! 

The  good  must  crucify  him  who  deviseth  his  own  virtue^ 
That  is  the  truth! 

The  second  one,  however,  who  discovered  their  country— 
the  country,  heart  and  soil  of  the  good  and  just,— it  was 
he  who  asked:    "Whom  do  they  hate  most?" 

The  creator y  hate  they  most,  him  who  breaketh  the  tables 
and  old  values,  the  breaker,— him  they  call  the  law-breaker. 

For  the  good— they  cannot  create;  they  are  always  the 
beginning  of  the  end: — 

—They  crucify  him  who  writeth  new  values  on  new 

tables,    they   sacrifice   unto    themselves   the   future they 

crucify  the  whole  human  future! 


LVI— OLD  AND  NEW  TABLES 


219 


The  good— they  have  always  been  the  beginning  of  the 

end. — 

27. 

0  my  brethren,  have  ye  also  understood  this  word?  And 
what  I  once  said  of  the  "last  man"? 

With  whom  lieth  the  greatest  danger  to  the  whole  human 
future?    Is  it  not  with  the  good  and  just? 

Break  up,  break  up,  I  pray  you,  the  good  and  ,ust!-^ 
my  brethren,  have  ye  understood  also  this  word.'' 

28. 
Ye  flee  from  me?     Ye  are  frightened?     Ye  tremble  at 

*0  my'^brethren,  when  I  enjoined  on  you  to  break  up  the 
good,  and  the  tables  of  the  good,  then  only  did  I  embark 

man  on  his  high  seas.  - 

And  now  only  cometh  unto  him  the  great  terror,  the 
great  outlook,  the  great  sickness,  the  great  nausea,  the  great 

'' FaSeTores  and  false  securities  did  the  good  teach  you; 
in  the  lies  of  the  good  were  ye  born  and  bred.  Everything 
hath  been  radically  contorted  and  distorted  by   he  good 

But  he  who  discovered  the  country  of  "man,    discovered 
also  the  country  of  "man's  future."    Now  shall  ye  be  sailors 

\";:p';rrsS:efup  betimes,  my  brethren  learn  to  keep 
yourselvi  up!    The  sea  stormeth:  many  seek  to  raise  them- 

"T?e1efst'oU:th:  all  is  in  the  sea.    Well!     Cheer  up! 

%fatTf?theSd!  ThUher  striveth  our  helm  where 
our  chUdren's  land  is!  Thitherwards,  stormier  than  the  sea, 
stormeth  our  great  longing!— 

29. 

«Why  so  hard!"— said  to  the  diamond  one  day  the  char- 
coal; "are  we  then  not  near  relatives?"- 


^iili 


^M 


VI 


220  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  III 

Why  so  soft?  O  my  brethren;  thus  do  /  ask  you:  are  ye 
then  not — my  brethren? 

Why  so  soft,  so  submissive  and  yielding?  Why  is  there 
so  much  negation  and  abnegation  in  your  hearts?  Why  is 
there  so  little  fate  in  your  looks? 

And  if  ye  will  not  be  fates  and  inexorable  ones,  how  can 
ye  one  day — conquer  with  me? 

And  if  your  hardness  will  not  glance  and  cut  and  chip  to 
pieces,  how  can  ye  one  day — create  with  me? 

For  the  creators  are  hard.  And  blessedness  must  it  seem 
to  you  to  press  your  hand  upon  millenniums  as  upon  wax,— 

— Blessedness  to  write  upon  the  will  of  millenniums '  as 
upon  brass, — harder  than  brass,  nobler  than  brass.  En- 
tirely hard  is  only  the  noblest. 

This  new  table,  O  my  brethren,  put  I  up  over  you:  Be- 
come hard  I — 

O  thou,  my  Will !  Thou  change  of  every  need,  my  need-» 
fulness!    Preserve  me  from  all  small  victories  I 

Thou  fatedness  of  my  soul,  which  I  call  fate!  Thou  In- 
me!     Over-me!     Preserve  and  spare  me  for  one  great  fate! 

And  thy  last  greatness,  my  Will,  spare  it  for  thy  last- 
that  thou  mayest  be  inexorable  in  thy  victory!  Ah,  who 
hath  not  succumbed  to  his  victory! 

Ah,  whose  eye  hath  not  bedimmed  in  this  intoxicated 
twilight!  Ah,  whose  foot  hath  not  faltered  and  forgotten 
in  victory — how  to  stand! — 

— That  I  may  one  day  be  ready  and  ripe  in  the  great 
noontide:  ready  and  ripe  like  the  glowing  ore,  the  lightning- 
bearing  cloud,  and  the  swelling  milk-udder: — 

—Ready  for  myself  and  for  my  most  hidden  Will:  a 
bow  eager  for  its  arrow,  an  arrow  eager  for  its  star: — 

— ^A  star,  ready  and  ripe  in  its  noontide,  glowing,  pierced, 
blessed,  by  annihilating  sun-arrows: — 

— A  sun  itself,  and  an  inexorable  sun-will,  ready  for 
annihilation  in  victory! 

O  Will,  thou  change  of  every  need,  my  needfulness! 
Spare  me  for  one  great  victory! 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


LVII— THE  CONVALESCENT  221 


LVII.— THE   CONVALESCENT 

One  morning,  not  long  after  his  return  to  his  cave,  Zara- 
Austra  sprang  up  from  his  couch  like  a  madman,  crying 
Sh  a  frightful  voice,  and  acting  as  if  some  one  still  lay 
on  the  coich  who  did  not  wish  to  rise.  Zarathustra's  voice 
also  resound^  such  a  manner  that  his  animals  came  to 
Z  rShtened,  and  out  of  all  the  neighbouring  caves  and 
lurking  places  all  the  creatures  slipped  away-flymg, 
fluS  creeping  or  leaping,  according  to  their  va- 
riety Äot  o?  ving.    Zarathustra,  however,  spake  these 

words: 

Up,  abysmal  thought  out  of  my  depth!     I  am  thy  cock 
and  morning  dawn,  thou  overslept  reptile:    Upl    Up!    My 

voice  shall  soon  crow  thee  awake! 

Unbind  the  fetters  of  thine  ears:  listen!  For  I  wish  to 
hear  thee!     Upl     Up!     There  is  thunder  enough  to  make 

%;rrurr  si^S^L  an  the  dimness  and  blindness  out 
of  üiine  eyes!  Hear  me  also  with  thine  eyes:  my  voice  is  a 
mpHirine  even  for  those  born  blind. 

td  onTethou  art  awake,  then  shalt  thou  ever  remam 
awake.  It  is  not  my  custom  to  awake  great-grandmothers 
out  of  their  sleep  that  I  may  bid  ^em-sleep  on! 

Thou  stirrest,  streichest  thyself  wheezest?  Up!  Up^ 
Not  wheeze,  shalt  thou,-but  speak  unto  me!  Zarathustra 
calleth  thee,  Zarathustra  the  godless!  ,.„„^^*.  «f 

-  I,  Zarathustra,  the  advocate  of  living  the  advocate  of 
suffering,  the  advocate  of  the  circuit-thee  do  I  call,  my 
most  abysmal  thought!  , 

Toy  to  me!  Thou  comest,— I  hear  thee!  Mine  ab3js 
spiakeSi,  my  lowest  depth  have  I  turned  over  into  the 

''^Toltomel    Come  hither!     Give  me  thy  hand- -ha! 

\JZ\£- ^Disgust,  disgust,  disgust alas  to 

mel 


■ik 


lit 


-122  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  III 


2. 

Hardly,  however,  had  Zarathustra  spoken  these  words, 
when  he  fell  down  as  one  dead,  and  remained  long  as  one 
dead.  When  however  he  again  came  to  himself,  then  was 
he  pale  and  trembling,  and  remained  lying;  and  for  long 
he  would  neither  eat  nor  drink.  This  condition  continued 
for  seven  days;  his  animals,  however,  did  not  leave  him 
day  nor  night,  except  that  the  eagle  flew  forth  to  fetch  food. 
And  what  it  fetched  and  foraged,  it  laid  on  Zarathustra's 
couch:  so  that  Zarathustra  at  last  lay  among  yellow  and 
red  berries,  grapes,  rosy  apples,  sweet-smelling  herbage,  and 
pine-cones.  At  his  feet,  however,  two  lambs  were  stretched, 
which  the  eagle  had  with  difficulty  carried  off  from  their 
shepherds. 

^  At  last,  after  seven  days,  Zarathustra  raised  himself  upon 
his  couch,  took  a  rosy  apple  in  his  hand,  smelt  it  and  found 
its  smell  pleasant.  Then  did  his  animals  think  the  time 
had  come  to  speak  unto  him. 

"O  Zarathustra,"  said  they,  "now  hast  thou  lain  thus  for 
seven  days  with  heavy  eyes:  wilt  thou  not  set  thyself  again 
upon  thy  feet? 

Step  out  of  thy  cave:  the  world  waiteth  for  thee  as  a 
garden.  The  wind  playeth  with  heavy  fragrance  which 
seeketh  for  thee;  and  all  brooks  would  like  to  run  after 
thee. 

All  things  long  for  thee,  since  thou  hast  remained  alone 
for  seven  days — step  forth  out  of  thy  cavel  All  things 
want  to  be  thy  physicians! 

Did  perhaps  a  new  knowledge  come  to  thee,  a  bitter, 
grievous  knowledge?  Like  leavened  dough  layest  thou,  thy 
soul  arose  and  swelled  beyond  all  its  bounds. — " 

— O  mine  animals,  answered  Zarathustra,  talk  on  thus 
and  let  me  listen!  It  refresheth  me  so  to  hear  your  talk: 
where  there  is  talk,  there  is  the  world  as  a  garden  unto  me. 

How  charming  it  is  that  there  are  words  and  tones;  are 
not  words  and  tones  rainbows  and  seeming  bridges  'twixt 
the  eternally  separated? 


LVII— THE  CONVALESCENT 


223 


To  each  soul  belongeth  another  world;  to  each  soul  is 
pverv  other  soul  a  back-world.  . 

Among  the  most  alike  doth  semblance  deceive  most  de- 
ligÄly :  for  the  smallest  gap  is  most  difficult  to  bridge 

""""For  me-how  could  there  be  an  outside-of-me?    T^ere 
is  no  outside!     But  this  we  forget  on  hearing  tones;  how 

delightful  it  is  that  we  forget!  ^  .     .u-     .  ,i,of 

Have  not  names  and  tones  been  given  uno  things  that 
man  may  refresh  himself  with  them?  It  is  a  beautiful 
Sv  speaking;  therewith  danceth  man  over  everything. 

hÄ^  all  speech  and  all  falsehoods  of  tones! 

With  tones  danceth  our  love  on  variegated  rainbows.— 

_"0  larShustra,"  said  then  his  animals,  "to  those  who 
think  like  us,  things  all  dance  themselves:  they  come  and 
hold  out  the  hand  and  laugh  and  flee— and  return 

Everything  goeth,  everything  returneth;  eternally  roUeth 
the  wheel  of  existence.  Everything  dieth,  everything  bios- 
someth  forth  again;  eternally  runneth  on  the  year  of  ex- 

'''Everything  breaketh,  everything  is  integrated  anew;  eter^ 
nally  buildeth  itself  the  same  house  of  ^^f  ^^^f;^^^^^^ 
separate,  all  things  again  greet  one  another;  eternally  true 
to  itself  remaineth  the  ring  of  existence. 

Every  moment  beginneth  existence,  around  every  Here 
rolleth  the  ball  ^There.'  The  middle  is  everywhere.  Crooked 

is  the  path  of  eternity."—  TorafT.nQtr^ 

— O  ye  wags  and  barrel-organs!   answered  Zarathustra, 

and  smiled  once  more,  how  well  do  ye  know  what  had  to  be 

fulfilled  in  seven  days:—  .  , 

-And   how   that   monster   crept   mto   my   throat   and 

choked  me!     But  I  bit  off  its  head  and  spat  it  away  from 

""  And  ye-ye  have  made  a  lyre-lay  out  of  it?  Now,  how- 
ever,  do  I  lie  here,  still  exhausted  with  that  biting  and 
spitting-away,  still  sick  with  mine  own  salvation 

And  ye  looked  on  at  it  all?    O  mine  animals,  are  ye  also 
cruel?    Did  ye  like  to  look  at  my  great  pam  as  men  do? 

For  man  is  the  cruellest  animal.  u;fi,prtr> 

At  tragedies,  bull-fights,  and  crucifixions  hath  he  hitherto 


224  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  III 

been  happiest  on  earth;  and  when  he  invented  his  hell,  be- 
hold, that  was  his  heaven  on  earth. 
^  When  the  great  man  crieth — :  immediately  runneth  the 
little  man  thither,  and  his  tongue  hangeth  out  of  his  mouth 
for  very  lusting.    He,  however,  calleth  it  his  "pity." 

The  little  man,  especially  the  poet — how  passionately  doth 
he  accuse  life  in  words!  Hearken  to  him,  but  do  not  fail  to 
hear  the  delight  which  is  in  all  accusation! 

Such  accusers  of  life — them  life  overcometh  with  a  glance 
of  the  eye.  "Thou  lovest  me?"  saith  the  insolent  one; 
"wait  a  little,  as  yet  have  I  no  time  for  thee." 

Towards  himself  man  is  the  cruellest  animal;  and  in  all 
who  call  themselves  "sinners"  and  "bearers  of  the  cross" 
and  "penitents,"  do  not  overlook  the  voluptuousness  in  their 
plaints  and  accusations! 

And  I  myself — do  I  thereby  want  to  be  man's  accuser? 
Ah,  mine  animals,  this  only  have  I  learned  hitherto,  that  for 
man  his  baddest  is  necessary  for  his  best, — 

— That  all  that  is  baddest  is  the  best  power,  and  the 
hardest  stone  for  the  highest  creator;  and  that  man  must 
become  better  and  badder: — 

Not  to  this  torture-stake  was  I  tied,  that  I  know  man  is 
bad, — but  I  cried,  as  no  one  hath  yet  cried: 

"Ah,  that  his  baddest  is  so  very  small!  Ah,  that  his  best 
is  so  very  small ! " 

The  great  disgust  at  man — it  strangled  me  and  had  crept 
into  my  throat:  and  what  the  soothsayer  had  presaged: 
"All  is  alike,  nothing  is  worth  while,  knowledge  strangleth." 

A  long  twilight  limped  on  before  me,  a  fatally  weary, 
fatally  intoxicated  sadness,  which  spake  with  yawning 
mouth. 

"Eternally  he  returneth,  the  man  of  whom  thou  art 
weary,  the  small  man" — so  yawned  my  sadness,  and  dragged 
its  foot  and  could  not  go  to  sleep. 

A  cavern,  became  the  human  earth  to  me;  its  breast 
caved  in;  everything  living  became  to  me  human  dust  and 
bones  and  mouldering  past. 

My  sighing  sat  on  all  human  graves,  and  could  no  longer 
arise:  my  sighing  and  questioning  croaked  and  choked,  and 
gnawed  and  nagged  day  and  night: 


LVII— THE  CONVALESCENT 


225 


—"Ah,  man  returneth  eternally!  The  small  man  re- 
turneth eternally!" 

Naked  had  I  once  seen  both  of  them,  the  greatest  man 
and  the  smallest  man:  all  too  like  one  another— all  too 
human,  even  the  greatest  man! 

All  too  small,  even  the  greatest  man!— that  was  my  dis- 
gust at  man!  And  the  eternal  return  also  of  the  smallest 
man!— that  was  my  disgust  at  all  existence! 

Ah    Disgust!   Disgust!   Disgust! Thus  spake  Zara- 

thustra,  and  sighed  and  shuddered;  for  he  remembered  his 
sickness.    Then  did  his  animals  prevent  him  from  speaking 

""Do  not  speak  further,  thou  convalescent ! "—so  answered 
his  animals,  "but  go  out  where  the  world  waiteth  for  thee 

like  a  garden.  ,    ,     r.    1       r  j        i 

Go  out  unto  the  roses,  the  bees,  and  the  flocks  of  doves! 

Especially,  however,  unto  the  singing-birds,  to  learn  stngtng 

from  them!  ^  , 

For  singing  is  for  the  convalescent;  the  sound  ones  may 
talk.  And  when  the  sound  also  want  songs,  then  want 
they  other  songs  than  the  convalescent." 

—"0  ye  wags  and  barrel-organs,  do  be  silent!"  answered 
Zarathustra,  and  smiled  at  his  animals.  "How  well  ye 
know  what  consolation  I  devised  for  myself  m  seven  days! 

That  I  have  to  sing  once  more— ^Äa^  consolation  did  1 
devise  for  mvself,  and  this  convalescence:  would  ye  also 
make  another  lyre-lay  thereof?"  ^ 

—"Do  not  talk  further,"  answered  his  animals  once  more; 
"rather,  thou  convalescent,  prepare  for  thyself  first  a  lyre, 
a  new  lyre!  .         - 

For  behold,  0  Zarathustra  1    For  thy  new  lays  there  are 

needed  new  lyres.  ,     ,    ,.  1     «xu 

Sing  and  bubble  over,  O  Zarathustra,  heal  thy  soul  with 

new  lays:  that  thou  mayest  bear  thy  great  fate,  which  hath 

not  yet  been  any  one's  fate!  „       ,  ,     .. 

For  thine  animals  know  it  well,  O  Zarathustra,  who  thou 

art  and  must  become:  behold,  thou  art  the  teacher  of  the 

eternal  return— ^\vaX  is  now  thy  fate! 
That  thou  must  be  the  first  to  teach  this  teaching— how. 


J 


226 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  III 


LVIII— THE  GREAT  LONGING 


227 


ä 


could  this  great  fate  not  be  thy  greatest  danger  and  in- 
firmity 1 

fi  Behold,  we  know  what  thou  teachest:  that  all  things 
Internally  return,  and  ourselves  with  them,  and  that  we  have 
already  existed  times  without  number,  and  all  things  with 
iis. 

Thou  teachest  that  there  is  a  great  year  of  Becoming,  a 
prodigy  of  a  great  year ;  it  must,  like  a  sand-glass,  ever  turn 
up  anew,  that  it  may  anew  run  down  and  run  out: — 

— So  that  all  those  years  are  like  one  another  in  the  great- 
est and  also  in  the  smallest,  so  that  we  ourselves,  in  every 
great  year,  are  like  ourselves  in  the  greatest  and  also  in  the 
smallest. 

And  if  thou  wouldst  now  die,  O  Zarathustra,  behold,  we 
know  also  how  thou  wouldst  then  speak  to  thyself: — but 
thine  animals  beseech  thee  not  to  die  yet ! 

Thou  wouldst  speak,  and  without  trembling,  buoyant 
rather  with  bliss,  for  a  great  weight  and  worry  would  be 
taken  from  thee,  thou  patientest  one! — 

*Now  do  I  die  and  disappear,'  wouldst  thou  say,  'and  in 
a  moment  I  am  nothing.    Souls  are  as  mortal  as  bodies. 

-But  the  plexus  of  causes  returneth  in  which  I  am  inter- 
twined,— it  will  again  create  me!  I  myself  pertain  to  the 
causes  of  the  eternal  return. 

I  come  again  with  this  sun,  with  this  earth,  with  this 
eagle,  with  this  serpent — not  to  a  new  life,  or  a  better  life, 

or  a  similar  life: 

— I  come  again  eternally  to  this  identical  and  selfsame 
life,  in  its  greatest  and  its  smallest,  to  teach  again  the  eter- 
nal return  of  all  things, — 

— ^To  speak  again  the  word  of  the  great  noontide  of  earth 
and  man,  to  announce  again  to  man  the  Superman. 

I  have  spoken  my  word.  I  break  down  by  my  word:  so 
willeth  mine  eternal  fate — as  announcer  do  I  succumb! 

The  hour  hath  now  come  for  the  down-goer  to  bless  him- 
self.   Thus — endeth  Zarathustra's  down-going.'  " 

When  the  animals  had  spoken  these  words  they  were 
silent  and  waited,  so  that  Zarathustra  might  say  something 
to  them:  but  Zarathustra  did  not  hear  that  they  were  silent. 


On  the  contrary,  he  lay  quietiy  with  do^ed  eyes  hke  a 
Sson  sleeping,  although  he  did  not  sleep;  for  he  com- 
Ened  just  thf;  with  his  soul.  The  serpent,  however,  and 
The  eagle,  when  they  found  him  silent  in  such  wise,  respected 
the  great  stillness  around  him,  and  prudently  retired. 

LVIII.— THE   GREAT   LONGING 

0  my  soul,  I  have  taught  thee  to  say  "to-day"  as  "once 
on  a  time»  and  "formerly,"  and  to  dance  thy  measure  over 
everv  Here  and  There  and  Yonder.  t  v      u^j 

O  my  soul,  I  delivered  thee  from  all  by-places,  I  brushed 
down  from  tiiee  dust  and  spiders  and  twilight. 

O  my  soul,  I  washed  the  petty  shame  and  the  by-place 
virVue  from  thee,  and  persuaded  thee  to  stand  naked  before 

'''Ä\Se  stm  Aat  is  called  "spirit"  did  I  blow  over  thy 
surging  sea;  all  clouds  did  I  blow  away  from  it;  I  strangled 

"S  t  ^»Äavf  tÄ':  right  to  say  Nay  like  the 
sto?m  an"?o'sa/Yea  as  the  open  heaven  sdth  Yea:  cdm 
as  the  light  remainest  tiiou,  and  now  walkest  through  de- 

^^'my'souU  restored  to  tiiee  liberty  over  tiie  created  and 
the  Sreated;   and  who  knowetii,  as  thou  knowest,  tiie 

^^SCrufllaS^t'ti'^^^  contempt  which  doth  not 
coSeTke  worm-eafing,  the  great,  tiie  loving  contempt, 
which  loveth  most  where  It  contemnetii  most 

O  mv  soul  I  taught  tiiee  so  to  persuade  tiiat  tiiou  per 
suadeTt^^n  the  grounds  tiiemselves  to. thee:  like  tiie  sun, 
which  persuadeth  even  tiie  sea  to  its  height. 

O  mv  soul,  I  have  taken  from  thee  all  obeying  and  knee^ 
bending  and  homage-paying;  I  have  myself  given  tiiee  tiie 

T  mV  TouriÄ^e'^  the'e  new  names  and  gay-coloured 
pÄs,  i  havTcIlled  thee  "Fate"  -?  "the  Orcu^o^ 
circuits"^d  "the  Navel-string  of  time"  and  the  Azure 
bell.» 


228 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  III 


LIX— THE  SECOND  DANCE  SONG 


229 


O  my  soul,  to  thy  domain  gave  I  all  wisdom  to  drink,  all 
new  wines,  and  also  all  immemorially  old  strong  wines  of 
wisdom. 

O  my  soul,  every  sun  shed  I  upon  thee,  and  every  night 
and  every  silence  and  every  longing: — then  grewest  thou 
up  for  me  as  a  vine. 

O  my  soul,  exuberant  and  heavy  dost  thou  now  stand 
forth,  a  vine  with  swelling  udders  and  full  clusters  of  brown 
golden  grapes: — 

— Filled  and  weighted  by  thy  happiness,  waiting  from 
superabundance,  and  yet  ashamed  of  thy  waiting. 

O  my  soul,  there  is  nowhere  a  soul  which  could  be  more 
loving  and  more  comprehensive  and  more  extensive !  Where 
could  future  and  past  be  closer  together  than  with  thee? 

O  my  soul,  I  have  given  thee  everything,  and  all  my 
hands  have  become  empty  by  thee: — and  now!  Now  sayest 
thou  to  me,  smiling  and  full  of  melancholy:  "Which  of  us 
oweth  thanks? — 

— Doth  the  giver  not  owe  thanks  because  the  receiver 
received?  Is  bestowing  not  a  necessity?  Is  receiving  not- 
pitying?" 

O  my  soul,  I  understand  the  smiling  of  thy  melancholy: 
thine  over-abundance  itself  now  stretcheth  out  longing 
hands! 

Thy  fulness  looketh  forth  over  raging  seas,  and  seeketh 
and  waiteth:  the  longing  of  over-fulness  looketh  forth  from 
the  smiling  heaven  of  thine  eyes  I 

And  verily,  O  my  soul!  Who  could  see  thy  smiling  and 
not  melt  into  tears?  The  angels  themselves  melt  into  tears 
through  the  over-graciousness  of  thy  smiling. 

Thy  graciousness  and  over-graciousness,  is  it  which  will 
not  complain  and  weep:  and  yet,  O  my  soul,  longeth  thy 
smiling  for  tears,  and  thy  trembling  mouth  for  sobs. 

"Is  not  all  weeping  complaining?  And  all  complaining, 
accusing?"  Thus  speakest  thou  to  thyself;  and  therefore, 
O  my  soul,  wilt  thou  rather  smile  than  pour  forth  thy 

grief— 

— ^Than  in  gushing  tears  pour  forth  all  thy  grief  concern- 
ing thy  fulness,  and  concerning  the  craving  of  the  vine  for 
the  vintager  and  vintage-knife! 


But  wilt  thou  not  weep,  wilt  thou  not  ^f P^*«''*  ^^ 
^u  mplancholv  then  wilt  thou  have  to  smg,  O  my  souii 
PAS  TsmUe  myself ,  who  foretell  thee  this: 
-ÜThou  Ave't^  ^ing  with  passionate  song,  until  all 
seas  turn  calm  to  hearken  unto  ^hy  longmgr^  ^^^ 

.ol^rr^arotd  S^TwlJc^  all  goo^d,  had,  and 

the  diamond  vmtage-knife,—  nameless  one— 

atody  hath  ü>y  breath  the  f»87'l°y"Xady  «»test 

-Already  S'»««' *°\!;Lt  ^b  VcoSation,  al- 

tSy'-rSS.*"  ä^  -'»^^   ta  "The  h„.  o,   .«ure 

?!S'rÄl"CÄ  ü-t  «a,  my  last  U.lng  .0 

OmysouU    And  let  me  thank  thee! - 
Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 

LIX.-THE  SECOND   DANCE   SONG 

I. 

..„to. thine  eyes  ^^l^'^^it^iA^lu  ^"^ 
tog,  driving,  rebliriüng.  golden  swmg-barkl 


230  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  III 

At  my  dance-frantic  foot,  dost  thou  cast  a  glance,  a 
laughing,  questioning,  melting,  thrown  glance: 

Twice  only  movedst  thou  thy  rattle  with  thy  little  hands 
— then  did  my  feet  swing  with  dance-fury. — 

My  heels  reared  aloft,  my  toes  they  hearkened,— thee 
they  would  know:  hath  not  the  dancer  his  ear — in  his  toe! 

Unto  thee  did  I  spring:  then  fledst  thou  back  from  my 
bound;  and  towards  me  waved  thy  fleeing,  flying  tresses 
round ! 

Away  from  thee  did  I  spring,  and  from  thy  snaky  tresses: 
^..  then  stoodst  thou  there  half-turned,  and  in  thine  eye 
'^^'^     caresses. 

ij         With    crooked    glances — dost    thou   teach    me   crooked 

courses;  on  crooked  courses  learn  my  feet — crafty  fancies! 

I  fear  thee  near,  I  love  thee  far;  thy  flight  allureth  me, 

thy  seeking  secureth  me: — I  suffer,  but  for  thee,  what  would 

I  not  gladly  bear! 

For  thee,  whose  coldness  inflameth,  whose  hatred  mislead- 
eth,  whose  flight  enchaineth,  whose  mockery — pleadeth: 

—Who  would  not  hate  thee,  thou  great  bindress,  in- 
windress,  temptress,  seekress,  findress!  Who  would  not 
love  thee,  thou  innocent,  impatient,  wind-swift,  child-eyed 
sinner! 

Whither  pullest  thou  me  now,  thou  paragon  and  tomboy? 
And  now  foolest  thou  me  fleeing;  thou  sweet  romp  dost 
annoy ! 

I  dance  after  thee,  I  follow  even  faint  traces  lonely. 
Where  art  thou?    Give  me  thy  hand!    Or  thy  finger  only! 

Here  are  caves  and  thickets:  we  shall  go  astray!— Halt! 
Stand  still!    Seest  thou  not  owls  and  bats  in  fluttering  fray? 

Thou  bat!  Thou  owl!  Thou  wouldst  play  me  foul? 
Where  are  we?  From  the  dogs  hast  thou  learned  thus  to 
bark  and  howl. 

Thou  gnashest  on  me  sweetly  with  little  white  teeth; 
thine  evil  eyes  shoot  out  upon  me,  thy  curly  little  mane 
from  underneath! 

This  is  a  dance  over  stock  and  stone:  I  am  the  hunter, — 
wilt  thou  be  my  hound,  or  my  chamois  anon? 

Now  beside  me!  And  quickly,  wickedly  springing!  Now 
up!    And  over! — ^Alas!    I  have  fallen  myself  overswinging! 


LIX— THE  SECOND  DANCE  SONG 


231 


Oh  see  me  lying,  thou  arrogant  one,  and  imploring  grace  1 

„,;:?"*  ÄÄ  U^wbere  goW-«she.  dance  and 

swim!  Ti^prp  above  are  sheep  and  sun- 

.^SrlT,  ^Sd^r^UMAoyM  l^ve  some. 

Eg;  S;.  thy  «outh  w?t,r^ä"se™ran7lurktag- 

■S^'-'XeTrttCtnepT^t  fnTy"  face  do  1  fee. 

ThorÄf  I  havl  hiSo'  sLg  uSto  ü>ee,  now  shal. 

"■"tVSJ  Ärif  my  «hip  shal.  4ou  dance  and  cryl 
I  forget  not  my  whip?— Not  I!  — 


2. 


Then  did  Life  answer  me  thus,  and  kept  thereby  her  fine 

''"oSthustra!    Crack  not  so  terribly  with  thy  whipl 
Thou  kn'wesf  surely  that  noise  f  le^h  thought,-and  just 

now  there  came  to  me  «"^^^  d^^^^^^^/J^l^^i^'^nd  ne'er-do- 
We  are  both  of  "^  ,g«"Hf  ^,°^f  ;,t:^^^^^^^^       and  our 
ills.    Beyond  good  and  evil  *ound  we  ou 
green  meadow-we  two  alone!     Therefore  musi 
friendly  to  each  other!  ^        ^^^  ^^^40^ 

Of  r  ^s^^rS:,^  '^'-'  ^^" 

^r  d^tMt'?  am  SdT  to  Si^^^^^^^^^  too  friendly 

thatk'n^^est'thoufrd'tle  reas£;s  üiat  I  am  envious  of 

thy  Wisdom.    Ah,  this  mad  «^^  f^J^' ^^^^om  thee,  ah! 

If  thy  Wisdom  should  one  day  J^'»  ^^,g  "°  5 -i,i„  »'_ 
then  would  also  my  love  run  away  from  thee  quickly. 

Thereupon  did  Life  look  thoughtfully  behind  and  around, 


232  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  III 

and  said  softly:     "O  Zarathustra,  thou  are  not  faithful 
enough  to  me!  ^ 

Thou  lovest  me  not  nearly  so  much  as  thou  sayesf  I 
know  thou  thinkest  of  soon  leaving  me.  ' 

There  is  an  old  heavy,  heavy,  booming-clock:  it  boometh 
by  night  up  to  thy  cave: — 

^  —When  thou  hearest  this  clock  strike  the  hours  at  mid- 
night, then  thinkest  thou  between  one  and  twelve  thereon— 

—Thou  thinkest  thereon,  O  Zarathustra,  I  know  it— of 
soon  leaving  me! " — 

I  "P^\'  answered  I,  hesitatingly,  "but  thou  knowest  it 
also  —And  I  said  something  into  her  ear,  in  amongst  her 
confused,  yellow,  foolish  tresses. 

"Thou  knowest  that,  O  Zarathustra?  That  knoweth  no 
one " 

And  we  gazed  at  each  other,  and  looked  at  the  green 
meadow  o'er  which  the  cool  evening  was  just  passing,  and 
we  wept  together.— Then,  however,  was  Life  dearer  unto  me 
than  all  my  Wisdom  had  ever  been. — 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


231 


0  man  I    Take  heed ! 


One! 
Two! 


What  saith  deep  midnight's  voice  indeed? 


"I  slept  my  sleep — 


Three! 
Four! 


"From  deepest  dream  IVe  woke  and  plead: 


"The  world  is  deep, 


Five! 


"Deep  is  its  woe — 


LX— THE  SEVEN  SEALS 

Six! 
«'And  deeper  than  the  day  could  read. 

Seven! 

Eight! 
"Joy— deeper  still  than  grief  can  be: 

Nine! 


"Woe  saith:    Hence!     Go! 

Ten! 

"But  joys  all  want  eternity — 

Eleven! 

"Want  deep  profoimd  eternity!" 

Twelve! 

LX.— THE   SEVEN   SEALS 
(Or  the  Yea  and  Amen  Lay.) 

I. 

If  I  be  a  diviner  and  full  of  the  divining  spirit  which 
wandereth  on  high  mountain-ridg^,  W  two  seas- 

Wandereth  'twixt  the  past  and  the  future  as  a  heavy 
cloud-hostile  to  sultry  plains,  and  to  all  that  is  weary  and 

can  neither  die  nor  live:  ,    ,    ^  ,  ,„,  .v«  ,- 

Ready  for  lightning  in  its  dark  bosom,  and  for  the  re- 
deeming flash  of  light,  charged  with  H^^^^^.^'^^.^l 
Yea!  which  laugh  Yea!  ready  for  divmmg  flashes  of  light- 

"-sTessed,  however,  is  he  who  is  thus  charged!     Ajjd 
verily,  long  must  he  hang  like  a  heavy  tempest  on  the 


234  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHÜSTRA,  III 

I 

mountain,  who  shall  one  day  kindle  the  light  of  the  fu- 
ture!— 

Oh,  how  could  I  not  be  ardent  for  Eternity  and  for  the 
marriage-ring  of  rings — the  ring  of  the  return? 

Never  yet  have  I  found  the  woman  by  whom  I  should 
like  to  have  children,  unless  it  be  this  woman  whom  I  love: 
for  I  love  thee,  O  Eternity! 

For  I  love  thee,  O  Eternity! 

2. 

If  ever  my  wrath  hath  burst  graves,  shifted  landmarks, 
or  rolled  old  shattered  tables  into  precipitous  depths: 

If  ever  my  scorn  hath  scattered  mouldered  words  to  the 
winds,  and  if  I  have  come  like  a  besom  to  cross-spiders, 
and  as  a  cleansing  wind  to  old  charnel-houses: 

If  ever  I  have  sat  rejoicing  where  old  Gods  lie  buried, 
world-blessing,  world-loving,  beside  the  monuments  of  old 
world-maligners : — 

— For  even  churches  and  Gods^-graves  do  I  love,  if  only 
heaven  looketh  through  their  ruined  roofs  with  pure  eyes; 
gladly  do  I  sit  like  grass  and  red  poppies  on  ruined 
churches — 

Oh,  how  could  I  not  be  ardent  for  Eternity,  and  for  the 
marriage-ring  of  rings — the  ring  of  the  return? 

Never  yet  have  I  found  the  woman  by  whom  I  should 
like  to  have  children,  unless  it  be  this  woman  whom  I  love: 
for  I  love  thee,  O  Eternity! 

For  I  love  thee,  O  Eternity! 


LX— THE  SEVEN  SEALS 


235 


:.«: 


If  ever  a  breath  hath  come  to  me  of  the  creative  breath, 
and  of  the  heavenly  necessity  which  compelleth  even  chances 
to  dance  star-dances: 

If  ever  I  have  laughed  with  the  laughter  of  the  creative 
lightning,  to  which  the  long  thunder  of  the  deed  followeth, 
grumblingly,  but  obediently: 

If  ever  I  have  played  dice  with  the  Gods  at  the  divine 
table  of  the  earth,  so  that  the  earth  quaked  and  ruptured, 
and  snorted  forth  fire-streams: — 


Jpor  a  divine  table  is  the  earth    and  trembling  with 

likftriave  cSren,  unless  it  be  this  woman  whom  I  love: 
for  I  love  thee,  O  Eternity! 
For  I  love  thee,  0  Eternity  I 

4. 

If  ever  I  have  drunk  a  full  draught  of  the  foaming  spice- 

est  fire  wS  "pWl,  i«y  «*  «'"'"'•  ^"^  *'  '"'*'''  "" 
"«'ity^lf  am  a  grata  of  the  saying  salt  which  mketh 
everything  in  the  confection-bowl  mix  well:— 
'3or  there  is  a  salt  which  uniteth  good  wi*  evü    and 
even  the  evilest  is  worthy,  as  spicmg  and  as  final  over- 

'ThTow  could  I  not  be  ardent  for  Eternity  and  for  the 

un,  nuw  ^""  ^  ,       .         f  i^he  return? 

T::ry"f  h  veT^nd  th?  woman  by  whom  I  should 
like  to  have  children,  unless  it  be  this  woman  whom  I  love, 
for  I  love  thee,  O  Eternity! 

For  I  love  thee,  O  Eternity ! 

S- 
If  I  be  fond  of  the  sea,  and  all  that  is  sealike,  and  fondest 
of  it  when  it  angrily  contradicteth  me:  .  ,       ., 

The  explorhig  delight  be  in  me,  J^ich  xmpeUeth  s^^^^ 
to  the  undiscovered,  if  the  seafarer's  delight  be  in  my  de 

"^K  "ever  my  rejoicing  hath  called  out:    «The  shore  hath 
vai  shld^/ow  U  fallen  from  me  th«  -t  cham- 
The  Wdl^s^ -areU.  arou^ 

'"irSrori^Ä  a!Sent  L  Et^i^y.  and  for  the   . 
marriage-ring  of  rings-the  ring  of  the  return? 


236 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  III 


Never  yet  have  I  found  the  woman  by  whom  I  should 
like  to  have  children,  unless  it  be  this  woman  whom  I  love: 
for  I  love  thee,  O  Eternity! 

For  I  love  thee,  O  Eternity t 


6. 

If  my  virtue  be  a  dancer's  virtue,  and  if  I  have  often 
sprung  with  both  feet  into  golden-emerald  rapture: 

If  my  wickedness  be  a  laughing  wickedness,  at  home 
among  rose-banks  and  hedges  of  lilies: 
•     — For  in  laughter  is  all  evil  present,  but  it  is  sanctified 
and  absolved  by  its  own  bliss: — 

And  if  it  be  my  Alpha  and  Omega  that  everything  heavy 
shall  become  light,  every  body  a  dancer,  and  every  spirit  a 
bird :  and  verily,  that  is  my  Alpha  and  Omega ! — 

Oh,  how  could  I  not  be  ardent  for  Eternity,  and  for  the 
marriage-ring  of  rings— the  ring  of  the  return? 

Never  yet  have  I  found  the  woman  by  whom  I  should 
like  to  have  children,  unless  it  be  this  woman  whom  I  love: 
for  I  love  thee,  O  Eternity! 

For  I  love  theej  0  Eternity  I 

7. 

If  ever  I  have  spread  out  a  tranquil  heaven  above  me,  and 
have  flown  into  mine  own  heaven  with  mine  own  pinions: 

If  I  have  svnim  playfully  in  profound  luminous  distances, 
and  if  my  freedom's  avian  wisdom  hath  come  to  me: — 

— ^Thus  however  speaketh  avian  wisdom: — "Lo,  there  is 
no  above  and  no  below!  Throw  thyself  about, — outward, 
backward,  thou  light  one!     Sing!  speak  no  more! 

— Are  not  all  words  made  for  the  heavy?  Do  not  all 
words  lie  to  the  light  ones?    Sing!  speak  no  more!" — 

Oh,  how  could  I  not  be  ardent  for  Eternity,  and  for  the 
marriage-ring  of  rings— the  ring  of  the  return? 

Never  yet  have  I  found  the  woman  by  whom  I  should  like 
to  have  children,  unless  it  be  this  woman  whom  I  love: 
for  I  love  thee,  O  Eternity! 

For  I  love  thee,  O  Eternity! 


I 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA 
FOURTH  AND  LAST   PART 


Ah,  where  in  the  world 
have  there  been  greater  fol- 
lies than  with  the  pitiful? 
And  what  in  the  world  hath 
caused  more  suffering  than 
the  follies  of  the  pitiful? 

Woe  unto  all  loving  ones 
who  have  not  an  elevation 
which  is  above  their  pity ! 

Thus  spake  the  devil  unto 
me,  once  on  a  time :  Even 
God  hath  his  hell :  it  is  his 
love  for  man." 

And  lately  did  I  hear  him 
say  these  words :  God  is 
dead:  of  his  pity  for  man 
hath  God  died."  —  Zara- 
^Hus-nt^,  IL,  "The  Pitiful" 

(p.    102)- 


IXI.— THE  HONEV  SACRIFICE 

-AND  again  pa^d  "TlAl'^^«^«.  vSSS  wSl' 
soul,  and  he  heeded  .  °°'>^„^',Änro   his  cave,  and 

^^SÄtKt^^^-cr'hur 

SÄ„7J^^°^-^°äSrSri.d  at  last  set  .hen. 
selves  in  front  of  him.  «„„-est  thou  out  perhaps  for 

J'^v,^"'' w"'  -of  w^S'  a??oTnt  h  my  Lppiness'.» 
thy  l^aPP^Jf  ^.^jT^^e  Cg  ceased  to  strive  any  more  for 
answered  he,  1  ^*Yf/^°f  ^_ri,  "_«o  Zarathustra,"  said 
happiness,  I  strive  for  «^X  JJ^-  ^^^  ^  «ne  who  hath 
the  animals  once  more  th^tj^^^^^^^^i^  ^  sky-blue  lake 
overmuch  of  good  things^    Liest  ^n^  Zarathustra,   and 

ts^^  ^^^^^^ 

Se?;1t7reÄ^:^d  S  -,  and  is  like 

molten  pitch."—  „„ojn  tVimiffhtfuUv  around  him, 

Then  went  his  animals  agamjiiougnuuuy  ^^^ 

and  placed  themselves  ^^Jl^^'^ZZX  for  that  reason 
Zarathustra,"  said  they,  ">V' Z^t?  veUower  and  darker, 
that  thou  thyself  always  becometh  yeUower  a  ^.^_ 

although  thy>airlooke^  white  and  fl^ 
test  in  thy  pitch!''-' What  do  ye  sa>^^m  ^^^  ^^ 

Zarathustra,  laughing;  "venly  I je^^lf  f  ^j.^  all  fruits 
pitch.  As,  it  hapijen Jh  wrth  -e^- ^yt^j^,,  ^.^eth  my 
that  turn  ripe.  It  is  the  «''«f  ^  "  .,<  „_«so  will  it  be,  O 
blood  thicker,  and  also  my  soul  stiller         »o 

Zarathustra,"  answered  his  ^"""^^J^'^XHountain?  The 
«but  wilt  thou  not  to-day  f^;^J  ^^^f^f  the  world  than 
air  is  pure,  and  to-day  o««  ^f  ^h  more  ^^^^^^ 

ever."-"Yea,  mine  animals  wt  I  will 'to-day  ascend 
admirably  and  according  to  my  heart. 

239 


240  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 

L^lf"  ™0"ntainl     But  see  that  honey  is  there  ready  to 
hand,  yelow  white  good,  ice-cool,  golden-comb-honey^    F 
know  that  when  aloft  I  will  make  the  honey-sacrifice  "- 

When  Zaraüiustra,  however,  was  aloft  on  the  summit  he 
sent  his  ammals  home  that  had  accompanied  him,  and  found 
that  he  was  now  a^one:-then  he  laughed  from  the  bottom 
of  his  heart,  looked  around  him,  and  spake  thus: 

That  I  spake  of  sacrifices  and  honey-sacrifices,  it  was 
merely  a  ruse  in  talking  and  verily,  a  useful  folly  I     Here 

f^if^y.    v°T  F^^^  ^J^^'  ^^°  ^  f'-o^t  of  mounuiin-caves 
and  anchorites'  domestic  animals. 

What  to  sacrifice!  I  squander  what  is  given  me  a 
squanderer  with  a  thousand  hands:  how  could  I  caU  that 
— ^sacrificing! 

And  when  I  desired  honey  I  only  desired  bait,  and  sweet 
mucus  and  mucilage,  for  which  even  the  mouths  of  growline 
bears,  and  strange,  sulky,  evil  birds,  water: 

vZ'^  1  ^^  ^f^i'  ^  ^"°tsmen  and  fishermen  require  it. 
For  if  the  world  be  as  a  gloomy  forest  of  animals,  and  a 
pleasure-ground  for  all  wild  huntsmen,  it  seemeth  to  me 
rather— and  preferably— a  fathomless,  rich  sea- 
^^Z^h!^r  !,""  9^  n^fny-hued  fishes  and  crabs,  for  which 
even  the  Gods  might  long,  and  might  be  tempted  to  become 
fishers  m  it  and  casters  of  nets,— so  rich  is  the  world  in 
wonderful  things,  great  and  small  I 

Especially  the  human  world,  the  human  sea:— towards 
f  J  °°J^  throw  out  my  golden  angle-rod  and  say:  Open 
Up,  thou  human  abyss!  ^ 

^n  up,  and  throw  unto  me  thy  fish  and  shining  crabs! 
With  my  best  bait  shall  I  allure  to  myself  to-day  the  strang- 
est human  fish!  ,  ^ 

o„r^-^  happiness  itself  do  I  throw  out  into  all  places  far 
and  wide    twixt  orient,  noontide,  and  Occident,  to  see  if 

°i^L— '"^     ^"^  °°'  ^^™  *°  ^"^  ^""^  *"s  ^^  "^y  ^«p- 

Until,  biting  at  my  sharp  hidden  hooks,  they  have  to 
come  up  unto  «y  height,  the  motleyest  abyss-groundlings, 
to  the  wickedest  of  all  fishers  of  men. 

For  this  am  I  from  the  heart  and  from  the  beginning— 


LXI— THE  HONEY  SACRIFICE 


241 


the  Ss  that  it  is  time  for  my  down-gomg;  as  yet  do  I  not 
rnv<;flf  eo  down,  as  I  must  do,  amongst  men. 
Therffore  do  I  here  wait,  crafty  and  scornful  upon  hi^ 

aIi  „/riiv  I  am  well-disposed  to  mine  eternal  fate,  be- 

'^  S'SsWriÄä-snorter  with  waiting,  a  My  howU 
Äth^'^r'-^HÄS-Ä-;^ 
""ÄrÄÄe  a  grudge  agait^t  ^dx  wjathM 

which  find  a  voice  now  or  «ever! 

liave  patience  and  time  and  more  tlBn  time,    tor  one  aay 
must  it  yet  come,  and  may  not  pass  by. 

TtS  "f  tTus"^^  r  »^'gr^at '»oS^--*^«- 
C  rÄÄ-Si-nd  y.^  -  ,, 

How  remote  may  such    remoteness    "^[^ 
concern  me?    But  on  that  account  it  is  ««"^f,  P^  J^!,  ,T 
unto  me^  with  both  feet  stand  I  secure  on  this  found; 

""'l^^  Vernal  ground,  on  hard  Fi"^^^/^^'^' °5,*^3S 
highest,  hardest,  primary  mountain-ndge,  unto  which  aU 


il 


242  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 

winds  come,  as  unto  the  storm-parting,  asking  Where?  and 
Whence?  and  Whither? 

Here  laugh,  laugh,  my  hearty,  healthy  wickedness!  From 
high  mountains  cast  down  thy  glittering  scorn-laughter! 
Allure  for  me  with  thy  glittering  the  finest  human  fish! 

And  whatever  belongeth  unto  me  in  all  seas,  my  in-and- 
for-me  in  all  things — fish  that  out  for  me,  bring  that  up  to 
me:  for  that  do  I  wait,  the  wickedest  of  all  fish-catchers. 

Out!  out!  my  fishing-hook!  In  and  down,  thou  bait  of 
my  happiness!  Drip  thy  sweetest  dew,  thou  honey  of  my 
heart!  Bite,  my  fishing-hook,  into  the  belly  of  all  black 
afiiiction  I 

Look  out,  look  out,  mine  eye!  Oh,  how  many  seas  round 
about  me,  what  dawning  human  futures!  And  above  me— 
what  rosy  red  stillness!    What  unclouded  silence  1 


LXII.— THE   CRY  OF   DISTRESS 

The  next  day  sat  Zarathustra  again  on  the  stone  in  front 
of  his  cave,  whilst  his  animals  roved  about  in  the  world 
outside  to  bring  home  new  food, — also  new  honey:  for 
Zarathustra  had  spent  and  wasted  the  old  honey  to  the 
very  last  particle.  When  he  thus  sat,  however,  with  a  stick 
in  his  hand,  tracing  the  shadow  of  his  figure  on  the  earth, 
and  reflecting— verily!  not  upon  himself  and  his  shadow,— 
all  at  once  he  startled  and  shrank  back :  for  he  saw  another 
shadow  beside  his  own.  And  when  he  hastily  looked  around 
and  stood  up,  behold,  there  stood  the  soothsayer  beside  him, 
the  same  whom  he  had  once  given  to  eat  and  drink  at  his 
table,  the  proclaimer  of  the  great  weariness,  who  taught: 
"All  is  alike,  nothing  is  worth  while,  the  world  is  without 
nieaning,  knowledge  strangleth."  But  his  face  had  changed 
since  then;  and  when  Zarathustra  looked  into  his  eyes,  his 
heart  was  startled  once  more:  so  much  evil  announcement 
and  ashy-grey  lightnings  passed  over  that  countenance. 

The  soothsayer,  who.  had  perceived  what  went  on  in 
Zarathustra's  soul,  wiped  his  face  with  his  hand,  as  if  he 
would  wipe  out  the  impression;  the  same  did  also  Zara^ 
thustra.    And  when  both  of  them  had  thus  silently  com- 


LXII-THE  CRY  OF  DISTRESS 


243 


.A  5,nd  strengthened  themselves,  they  gave  each  other 
Änt  afÄ^  that  they  wanted  once  more  to  recog- 

""''"wätr^fSher  »  said  Zarathustra,  "thou  soothsayer  of 

.       i^Tearinis   not  in  vain  shalt  thou  once  have  been 

the  great  ^^f  ^^^^^^^^^^^^  '^^^^  ^nd  drink  also  with  me  to- 

n,y  messniate  and  guest^   ^at  an  ^^^^^  ^.^^  ^^^^ 

Ab"  "-^rciUS  »,?:£."»  answered  ü>e  .«.tt^yer^ 
at  tapie.  whoever  thou  art,  or  wouldst  be,  Ü 

Äst   thou  h'ast  be'nhere  aloft  the  long-t  time^^. 
fnflittie  while  thy  bark  shall  no  longer  rest  on  dry  land! 

<^nnT  then  rest  on  dry  land?"-asked  Zarathustra  laugh- 

^ßi^VSLlrolä  thy  mountain,"  answered  Ae 

oothsayer,  "rise  and  rise,  ^e  waves  of  gr^^^^^^^^^^^        ^d 

^^fr^'^.:lT^'^r2ÜSs^  and  ;i^ered. 
!!<^osT3.ou  Sernothing?"  continued  the  ^oüjsayen 

"doth  it  not  rush  and  roar  <^^^' ^^,,7lZ"tZg, 
was  silent  onc^more  ^d  hst^^^^^^  one  another  and  passed 
'::'Zl':^oti:T^s^rio\e^n  a-,  so  evil  did  it 

-V^^xtu  ill  annou-er  ;said  Z^^^^^^^^^^ 

^■^  •'f  fS  "a  %Vt^wh1t  dXhlan'distr^s'matter 

T:L'  My  laft^Ä  hath  been  reserved  for  me,- 

knowest  thou  what  '^'\^^^^,..^^^  {^„1  an  overflowing 
-."Pityt"  answered  the  ^o^t^j^ye^^^^^^     Zarathustra,  I 

heart,  and  raised  both  his  h^nas  ai°ii  _ 

have  come  that  I  may  seduce  ^^^l^f^  ^^ '^^^^^^^^  there 

And  hardly  had  those  words  ^^^^^'^.Tlrnang 

sounded  the  cry  once  more,  and  \onger  and  mo 

'^  Tit^^t^^^^^ont  rrthfa^er,  "the  cry 
rc^rnetftCeTcalleth  thee:  Come,  come,  come;  xt  is 
time,  it  is  the  highest  time!  -  ^^^  ^^^g. 

.e^rÄhltsÄÄesi^teü,  in  hin^U: 
"XfS.iVü'SJe^t^t-Ä-  «ed  .he  .ooU.. 


Iv 


244  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 

sayer  warmly,  "why  dost  thou  conceal  thyself?    It  is  the 
higher  man  that  crieth  for  thee!" 

"The  higher  man?"  cried  Zarathustra,  horror-stricken- 
"what  wanteth  he?  What  wanteth  he?  The  higher  man^ 
What  wanteth  he  here?"— and  his  skin  covered  with  per- 
spiration. 

The  soothsayer,  however,  did  not  heed  Zarathustra's 
alarm,  but  listened  and  listened  in  the  downward  direction. 
When,  however,  it  had  been  still  there  for  a  long  while,  he 
looked  behind,  and  saw  Zarathustra  standing  trembling.' 

"O  Zarathustra,"  he  began,  with  sorrowful  voice,  "thou 
dost  not  stand  there  like  one  whose  happiness  maketh  him 
giddy:  thou  wilt  have  to  dance  lest  thou  tumble  down! 

But  although  thou  shouldst  dance  before  me,  and  leap  all 
thy  side-leaps,  no  one  may  say  unto  me:  'Behold,  here 
danceth  the  last  joyous  man!' 

In  vain  would  any  one  come  to  this  height  who  sought 
him  here:  caves  would  he  find,  indeed,  and  back-caves,  hid- 
ing-places for  hidden  ones;  but  not  lucky  mines,  nor  treas- 
ure-chambers, nor  new  gold-veins  of  happiness. 

Happiness — ^how  indeed  could  one  find  happiness  among 
such  buried-alive  and  solitary  ones!  Must  I  yet  seek  the 
last  happiness  on  the  Happy  Isles,  and  far  away  among  for- 
gotten seas? 

But  all  is  alike,  nothing  is  worth  while,  no  seeking  is  of 
service,  there  are  no  longer  any  Happy  Isles! " 

Thus  sighed  the  soothsayer;  with  his  last  sigh,  however, 
Zarathustra  again  became  serene  and  assured,  like  one  who 
hath  come  out  of  a  deep  chasm  into  the  light.  "Nay!  Nay! 
Three  times  Nay!"  exclaimed  he  with  a  strong  voice,  and 
stroked  his  beard — ''that  do  I  know  better!  There  are  still 
Happy  Isles!     Silence  thereon,  thou  sighing  sorrow-sack! 

Cease  to  splash  thereon,  thou  rain-cloud  of  the  forenoon! 
Do  I  not  already  stand  here  wet  with  thy  misery,  and 
drenched  like  a  dog? 

Now  do  I  shake  myself  and  run  away  from  thee,  that  I 
may  again  become  dry:  thereat  mayest  thou  not  wonder! 
Do  I  seem  to  thee  discourteous?    Here  however  is  my  court. 

But  as  regards  the  higher  man:  well!  I  shall  seek  him  at 


LXIII-TALK  WITH  THE  KINGS 


245 


nnce  in  those  forests:  jrom  ^Äence  came  his  cry.    Perhaps 

nrsainr'säü^^y-     "O  ^ara.hus«a,  «.ou  art  a 

TkLow  it  wen:  ttou  ^^^^^  ^/^  Ä 
wouldst  thou  run  into  the  forest  ana  lay 

beasts!  ,     ,     p    j^  the  evening  wilt  thou 

Z^l'tUÄ'lU/oXve  S«  I  SU,  pa«e„t  a»d 

heavy  like  a  »^fl'Tf  J,rZa°athustta,  as  he  went  away: 
^?l,ds.  0.0«  bowev.  «  ^-y^^ r'Ä'S 

.;;'"«r  Ä'r  «Äncel  ./.ays,  -  »y 

dancing-bear.         .  ,.   ,„  .!,;->    Thou  shakest  thy  head? 
Thou  dost  not  beUeve  this?     ^  J^      ^  soothsayer.» 
Well!    Cheer  up,  old  bear!    But  1  also— am 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 

LXIII.-TALK  WITH  THE  KINGS 

Ere  zarathustra  ^d^ee£^^ 
mountains  and  forests,  he  saw  an  ^^  ^^^^^^ 

sion.    Right  on  *e  path  which  he  was  ^^^ 

came  two  kings  talking,  bedecked  wim  ^^^^^ 

girdles,  and  variegated  like  flamin^^^^^     J^„,  i„  ^y  do- 
üiem  a  laden  ass.    "What  ^'^J^^K^^^^^  his  heart,  and 
main?"  said  Zarathustra  m  as  jmshment^^^  ^^^^^^^ 
hid  himself  hastily  behind  a  thicke  ^^^  ^^^_ 

kings  approached  fo  him  he  said  ha    a  ^^^  ^ 

Sä:?  YÄngsTfsee-and  only  one  assl" 


246  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 

Thereupon  the  two  kings  made  a  halt;  they  smiled  and 
looked  towards  the  spot  whence  the  voice  proceeded  and 
afterwards  looked  into  each  other's  faces.  "Such  things  do 
we  also  think  among  ourselves,"  said  the  king  on  the  rieht 
"but  we  do  not  utter  them."  ^   ' 

The  king  on  the  left,  however,  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
answered:     "That  may  perhaps  be  a  goat-herd.     Or  an 
anchorite  who  hath  lived  too  long  among  rocks  and  trees 
l-or  no  society  at  all  spoileth  also  good  manners  " 

"Good  manners?"  repHed  angrily  and  bitterly  the  other 
king:  what  then  do  we  run  out  of  the  way  of?  Is  it  not 
good  manners'?    Our  'good  society'? 

Better  verily,  to  live  among  anchorites  and  goat-herds 
than  with  our  gilded,  false,  over-rouged  populace— though 
It  call  Itself  'good  society.'  *      k  ^  gu 

—Though  it  call  itself  'nobility.'  But  there  all  is  false 
and  foul,  above  all  the  blood— thanks  to  old  evil  diseases 
and  worse  curers. 

The  best  and  dearest  to  me  at  present  is  still  a  sound 
peasant,  coarse,  artful,  obstinate  and  enduring:  that  is  at 
present  the  noblest  type. 

The  peasant  is  at  present  the  best;  and  the  peasant  type 
should  be  master!  But  it  is  the  kingdom  of  the  populace- 
1  no  longer  allow  anything  to  be  imposed  upon  me.  The 
populace,  however— that  meaneth,  hodgepodge. 

Populace-hodgepodge:  therein  is  everything  mixed  with 
everything,  samt  and  swindler,  gentleman  and  Jew.  and 
every  beast  out  of  Noah's  ark. 

Good  manners!  Everything  is  false  and  foul  with  us. 
No  one  knoweth  any  longer  how  to  reverence:  it  is  that 
precisely  that  we  run  away  from.  They  are  fulsome  ob- 
trusive dogs;  they  gild  palm-leaves. 

This  loathing  choketh  me,  that  we  kings  ourselves  have 
become  false,  draped  and  disguised  with  the  old  faded  pomp 
of  our  ancestors,  show-pieces  for  the  stupidest,  the  craftiest 
and  whosoever  at  present  trafficketh  for  power.  ' 

We  are  not  the  first  men— and  have  nevertheless  to  stand 
for  them:  of  this  imposture  have  we  at  last  become  wearv 
and  disgusted. 

From  the  rabble  have  we  gone  out  of  the  way,  from  all 


LXIII— TALK  WITH  THE  KINGS 


247 


"■^ThSfeÄtaess  sei^th  to,"  said  XX'^IZ 
the  lef  "thy  loathing  seizeth  thee,  my  poor  brother.  Thou 
«t,  Sever  t^t  so«  one^e-*;-  ^  ^^ 
eaL-Stf  e^to'ra  fÄrhisW-place,  ad- 
-r^  r ht£neÄ"yotÄ  Sladly  -ea^oeth 

""?  r7arateÄo"^nS'  said:     'What  doth  it  now 
I  am  Zaratnusira  wuu  unv.  -^;nirpr1  when  ve  said 

»""/'r'r-'''-|hatSTtr;t  rXSAgTi' 

ye  be  ieking  in  "J  ^"»A^.'^^A,  t^"  hfgher  „,an." 

'"■S^ertrL^Ca  (h^lhelTbeat^upo"  f^-  ^'^ 
anS^M  th  ofe  voice:   J-e  r«o^^^  ^  ^  ^^^_ 

*i'V''tn?lr  ht^r  Ttou  hit  discovered  our  di^ 

est  darkness  of  our  nearis.     xuu  v^jgher  man— 

To  him  do  we  convey  this  ass.    ror  luc     & 
also  be  the  highest  lord  on  earlh.  destiny,  than 

There  is  "o  sore'  XfäS  ÄS  tote,'  men. 
Cn  tr^'S^^S^.htl.^a.d  distorted  and  mon- 

"'S  when  they  are  e«n ^^^^-^^^^^Tl^', 
XrS  SrSt  eVif  tÄrrvirtJeP  .1.,  I  alone  an, 
^ÄäV'^ve  I  just  heard?  -wered Ja^Austra.    Wl^t 

wisdom  in  kingsl    I  am  «»*^°«f ' '"tl  - 
'-i'kSinÄ'ÄAn  trbVr;^e  »o.  smted  for 


248  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 

every  one's  ears.    I  unlearned  long  ago  to  have  considera- 
tion for  long  ears.    Well  then!    Well  now! 

(Here,  however,  it  happened  that  the  ass  also  found 
utterance:  it  said  distinctly  and  with  malevolence,  Ye-a.) 

Twas  once— methinks  year  one  of  our  blessed  Lord  — 
Drunk  without  wine,  the  Sybil  thus  deplored:—      * 
"How  ill  things  go! 

Decline!     Decline!     Ne'er  sank  the  world  so  low! 
Kome  now  hath  turned  harlot  and  harlot-stew 
Rome's  Caesar  a  beast,  and  God— hath  turned  Jewl» 

2. 

With  those  rhymes  of  Zarathustra  the  kings  were  de- 
lighted; the  king  on  the  right,  however,  said:  "O  Zara- 
thustra, how  well  it  was  that  we  set  out  to  see  thee! 

For  thine  enemies  showed  us  thy  likeness  in  their  mirror- 
there  lookedst  thou  with  the  grimace  of  a  devil,  and  sneer- 
mgly:  so  that  we  were  afraid  of  thee. 

But  what  good  did  it  do!     Always  didst  thou  prick  us 

^r .'°  «!'*  ^^  ^^^  "^^^^  ^y  s^y^"gs.    Then  did  we  say 
at  last:    What  doth  it  matter  how  he  look! 

We  must  hear  him;  him  who  teacheth:     'Ye  shall  love 

Snathe  lonT^"^  *°  "^"^  ^^"^^  ^^  ^^  ^^  ^^""^  ^^'^ 

No  one  ever  spake  such  warlike  words:    'What  is  good? 

To  be  brave  is  good.    It  is  the  good  war  that  halloweth 

every  cause.'  «"cm 

O  Zarathustra,  our  fathers'  blood  stirred  in  our  veins  at 
sucj  words:  it  was  like  the  voice  of  spring  to  old  wine- 
When  the  swords  ran  among  one  another  like  red-spotted 
serpents,  tiien  did  our  faüiers  become  fond  of  life;  the  sun 
of  every  peace  seemed  to  tiiem  languid  and  lukewarm  the 
long  peace,  however,  made  them  ashamed. 

?T-  ^f^  f^I"^.'  °"''  ^^^^'■^'  '«'^en  they  saw  on  the 
wall  brightly  furbished,  dried-up  swords!  Like  those  tiiey 
thirsted  for  war  For  a  sword  thirsteth  to  drink  blood,  and 
sparkleth  with  desire." 


LXIV— THE  LEECH 


249 


-When  the  kings  thus  discoursed  and  talked  eagerly  of 
the  happiness  of  their  fathers,  there  came  upon  Zarathustra 
?oS  desire  to  mock  at  their  eagerness:  for  evidently 
Zy  were  very  peaceable  kings  whom  he  saw  before  him, 
Es  with  old  and  refined  features.  But  he  restrained  him- 
S    "Well!"  said  he,  "thither  leadeth  the  way  there  lieth 

he  cave  of  Zarathustra;  and  this  day  is  to  have  a  long 
evenSg!    At  present,  however,  a  cry  of  distress  calletii  me 

^lf  wirhJnourmrcave  if  kings  want  to  sit  and  wait  in 
if  but  to  be  sure,  ye  will  have  to  wait  long! 

Well!  What  of  that!  Where  doth  one  at  present  learn 
better  to  wait  than  at  courts?  And  the  whole  virtue  of 
kinS  that  hath  remained  unto  them-is  it  not  called  to-day: 
AbUity  to  wait?" 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 

LXIV.— THE  LEECH 

And  Zarathustra  went  thoughtfully  on  further  and  lower 
down,  through  forests  and  past  ^oory  bottoms,  as  it  h^ 
peneth,  however,  to  every  one  who  "^«^^^ate^^  "I^X,™ 
matters,  he  trod  thereby  unawares  upon  a  m^n.  And  lo 
there  spurted  into  his  face  all  at  once  a  9;y  ««  PJ"^|^^^, 
two  curses  and  twenty  bad  invectives  so  that  in  his  f right 
he  raised  his  stick  and  also  struck  the  trodden  one_Im 
mediately  afterwards,  however  he  '^fg^i»«^  his  composure, 
and  his  heart  laughed  at  the  ff  Y  he  had  J^^t  <:ommitted. 

"ParHon  me  "  said  he  to  the  trodden  one,  who  üaa  goi 
up  rnraged,  and  had  seated  himself,  "pardon  me,  and  hear 

first  of  all  a  parable.  xi,:„«  „„  n  Inne- 

As  a  wanderer  who  dreameth  of  remote  thin^pn  a  lon^ 

some  highway,  runneth  unawares  against  a  sleeping  dog,  a 

dog  which  lieth  in  the  sun:  ,      , 

Ias  both  of  them  then  start  up  and  snap  at  each  o4e^ 
like  deadly  enemies,  those  two  beings  mortally  frightened 

.-LfyiL'iryTt-how  little  was  lacking  for  them  to 


250 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 


LXIV— THE  LEECH 


251 


caress  each  other,  that  dog  and  that  lonesome  one!  Are 
they  not  both — lonesome  ones!" 

— "Whoever  thou  art,"  said  the  trodden  one,  still  en- 
raged, "thou  treadest  also  too  nigh  me  with  thy  parable, 
and  not  only  with  thy  foot ! 

Lo!  am  I  then  a  dog?" — ^And  thereupon  the  sitting  one 
got  up,  and  pulled  his  naked  arm  out  of  the  swamp.  For 
at  first  he  had  lain  outstretched  on  the  ground,  hidden  and 
indiscernible,  like  those  who  lie  in  wait  for  swamp-game. 

"But  whatever  art  thou  about!"  called  out  Zarathustra 
in  alarm,  for  he  saw  a  deal  of  blood  streaming  over  the 
naked  arm, — "what  hath  hurt  thee?  Hath  an  evil  beast 
HI        bit  thee,  thou  unfortunate  one?" 

The  bleeding  one  laughed,  still  angry.  "What  matter 
is  it  to  thee!"  said  he,  and  was  about  to  go  on.  "Here  am 
I  at  home  and  in  my  province.  Let  him  question  me  who- 
ever will:  to  a  dolt,  however,  I  shall  hardly  answer." 

"Thou  art  mistaken,"  said  Zarathustra  sympathetically, 
and  held  him  fast;  "thou  art  mistaken.  Here  thou  art  not 
at  home,  but  in  my  domain,  and  therein  shall  no  one  receive 
any  hurt. 

Call  me  however  what  thou  wilt — I  am  who  I  must  be. 
I  call  myself  Zarathustra. 

Well!  Up  thither  is  the  way  to  Zarathustra 's  cave:  it  is 
not  far, — wilt  thou  not  attend  to  thy  wounds  at  my 
ihome? 

It  hath  gone  badly  with  thee,  thou  unfortunate  one,  in 
this  life:  first  a  beast  bit  thee,  and  then — a,  man  trod  upon 
thee!" 

When  however  the  trodden  one  had  heard  the  name  of 
Zarathustra  he  was  transformed.  "What  happeneth  unto 
me!"  he  exclaimed,  ''who  preoccupieth  me  so  much  in  this 
life  as  this  one  man,  namely  Zarathustra,  and  that  one 
animal  that  liveth  on  blood,  the  leech? 

For  the  sake  of  the  leech  did  I  lie  here  by  this  swamp, 
like  a  fisher,  and  already  had  mine  outstretched  arm  been 
bitten  ten  times,  when  there  biteth  a  still  finer  leech  at  my 
blood,  Zarathustra  himself! 

O  happiness!  O  miracle!  Praised  be  this  day  which  en- 
ticed me  into  the  swamp!     Praised  be  the  best,  the  livest 


cupping-glass,  that  at  present  liveth;  praised  be  the  great 
^^^friprire-leech  Zarathustra!" —  .  .    j    .. 

'Xs  spake  the  trodden  one,  and  Zarathustra  rejoiced  a 
,.•    „m-nT  and  their  refined  reverential  style.       Who  art 
£„Äed  he   and  gave  him  his  hand,  "there  is  much 
lo  clear  up  and  elucidate  between  us,  but  already  methink- 

"^^  Ts^:^^fous,  o«e"  answered  he  w^ 
h^A  <^QnH  in  matters  of  the  spirit  it  is  difticult  lor  any 
Sftat  ulÄorously,  --  -strictf ^   and  mo« 
severely  than  I,  except  him  from  whom  I  learnt  it,  Zara 

n?tÄow  nothing  than  hal^know  many  things^   Bet 
ter  be  a  fool  on  one's  own  account,  than  a  sage  on  otner 
people's  approbation!     I— go  to  the  basis: 
^  -What  matter  if  it  be  great  or  small?    «  ;*  ^^  ^^"J 
swamp  or  sky?    A  handbreadth  of  basis  is  enough  for  me, 
if  it  he  actually  basis  and  ground!  ^ 

A  handbreadth  of  basis:  thereon  can  one  stand.     In 
the'^mekLS  knowledge  there  is  nothing  great  and  noth- 

^"^'The'n-Ihou  art  perhaps  an  expert  on  the  leech? ^^  asked 
Zarathustra;  "and  thou  investigatest  the  leech  to  its  ulti 
mate  basis,  thou  conscientious  one? 

"O  Zarathustra  "  answered  the  trodden  one,  tnat  wouiu 
be  sie  hiigTmm^^^^^  how  could  I  P--^  ^^  ^o^so'. 

That,  however,  of  which  I  am  master  and  knower,  is  tne 
brain  of  the  leech: -that  is  my  world! 

And  it  is  also  a  world!  Forgive^*' ^.^vt  „It  ^^^ 
pride  here  findeth  expression,  for  here  I  have  not  mine 
equal.    Therefore  said  I:  'here  am  I  at  home. 

How  long  have  I  investigated  this  one  thmg,  the  brain  01 
the  lelch,  so  that  here  the  slippery  truth  might  no  longer 

''^  %7Z-s£Z  ÄdTcast  everything  else  aside 


252 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 


LXV— THE  MAGICIAN 


253 


iiiil 


else:  they  are  a  loathing  unto  me,  all  the  semi-spiritual,  aD 
the  hazy,  hovering,  and  visionary. 

Where  mine  honesty  ceaseth,  there  am  I  blind,  and  want 
also  to  be  blind.  Where  I  want  to  know,  however,  there 
want  I  also  to  be  honest — namely,  severe,  rigorous,  re- 
stricted, cruel  and  inexorable. 

Because  thou  once  saidest,  O  Zarathustra:  ^Spirit  is  life 
which  itself  cutteth  into  life'; — that  led  and  allured  me  to 
thy  doctrine.  And  verily,  with  mine  own  blood  have  I 
increased  mine  own  knowledge!" 

— "As  the  evidence  indicateth,"  broke  in  Zarathustra; 
for  still  was  the  blood  flowing  down  on  the  naked  arm  of  the 
conscientious  one.    For  there  had  ten  leeches  bitten  into  it. 

"0  thou  strange  fellow,  how  much  doth  this  very  evidence 
teach  me — namely,  thou  thyself!  And  not  all,  perhaps, 
might  I  pour  into  thy  rigorous  ear! 

Well  then!  We  part  here!  But  I  would  fain  find  thee 
again.  Up  thither  is  the  way  to  my  cave:  to-night  shalt 
thou  there  be  my  welcome  guest! 

Fain  would  I  also  make  amends  to  thy  body  for  Zara- 
thustra treading  upon  thee  with  his  feet:  I  think  about 
that.  Just  now,  however,  a  cry  of  distress  calleth  me  hastily 
away  from  thee." 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 

LXV.— THE   MAGICIAN 

I. 

When  however  Zarathustra  had  gone  round  a  rock,  then 
saw  he  on  the  same  path,  not  far  below  him,  a  man  who 
threw  his  limbs  about  like  a  maniac,  and  at  last  tumbled 
to  the  ground  on  his  belly.  "Halt!"  said  then  Zarathustra 
to  his  heart,  "he  there  must  surely  be  the  higher  man,  from 
him  came  that  dreadful  cry  of  distress, — I  will  see  if  I  can 
help  him."  When,  however,  he  ran  to  the  spot  where  the 
man  lay  on  the  ground,  he  found  a  trembling  old  man  with 
fixed  eyes;  and  in  spite  of  all  Zarathustra 's  efforts  to  lift 
him  and  set  him  again  on  his  feet,  it  was  all  in  vain.    The 


„,„rt-ma«  one,  also  did  n«  ^  '»  f  ä?Är?»S 
^  beside  tam;  »"^»^»"Sne  forsaken  and  isolated 
around  with  moving  |f  "7i,^';^,°;'ifter  much  trembling. 
iTcÄX'L  cÄ&H-ip,  he  began  u.  Urnen. 

thus: 

Who  warm'th  me,  who  lov'th  me  still? 

Give  ardent  fingers! 

Give  heartening  charcoal-warmers! 

SÄÄ  aÄfwhose  feet  one  warm'th^ 
Ä  shSen,  ah!  by  unfamiliar  fevers 
aivering  with  sharpened,  icy-cold  frost-arrows, 
By  thee  pursued,  my  fancy! 

ru'ÄrÄ-S'darkness  watcheth; 

i;I5"myii%t  myself,  convulsed 
With  all  eternal  torture, 

And  smitten 
By  thee,  cruellest  huntsman, 
Thou  unfamiUar — God  .   •  • 

Smite  deeper! 

Smite  yet  once  more! 

Pierce  through  and  rend  my  heart!' 

What  mean'th  this  torture 

With  dull,  indented  arrows? 

Why  look'st  thou  hither, 

Of  human  pain  not  weary,  „,.---8? 

With  mischief-loving,  godly  flash-glances? 

Not  murder  wilt  thou, 

But  torture,  torture? 

For  -why— we  torture,  nn/1?— » 

Thou  rnischief-loving,  unfamiliar  God?-* 

Hal     Hal 

Thou  stealest  nigh 


iiiii 


254  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 

In  midnight's  gloomy  hour?  .  . 

What  wilt  thou? 

Speak  f 

Thou  crowdst  me,  pressest — 

Ha!  now  far  too  closely! 

Thou  hearst  me  breathing, 

Thou  o'erhearst  my  heart, 

Thou  ever  jealous  one! 

— Of  what,  pray,  ever  jealous? 

Off!     Off! 

For  why  the  ladder? 

Wouldst  thou  get  in? 

To  heart  in-clamber? 

To  mine  own  secretest 

Conceptions  in-clamber? 

Shameless  one!     Thou  unknown  one! — ^Thiefl 

What  seekst  thou  by  thy  stealing? 

What  seekst  thou  by  thy  hearkening? 

What  seekst  thou  by  thy  torturing? 

Thou  torturer! 

Thou — hangman-God ! 

Or  shall  I,  as  the  mastiffs  do. 

Roll  me  before  thee? 

And  cringing,  enraptured,  frantical, 

My  tail  friendly — waggle! 

In  vain! 

Goad  further! 

Cruellest  goader! 

No  dog — thy  game  just  am  I, 

Cruellest  huntsman! 

Thy  proudest  of  captives. 

Thou  robber  'hind  the  cloud-banks  ... 

Speak  finally! 

Thou  lightning-veiled  one!    Thou  unknown  one!    Speak  I 

What  wilt  thou,  highway-ambusher,  from — me? 

What  wilt  thou,  unfamiliar — God? 

What? 

Ransom-gold? 

How  much  of  ransom-gold? 


LXV— THE  MAGICIAN 

« 

<;nlicit  much— that  bid'th  my  pride! 

ä  be  concise-that  bid'th  mine  other  pridel 

Ha!    Ha! 

j/e— wantst  thou?  me? 

—Entire?  ... 

And  torturest  me,  fool  that  thou  art, 

Dead-torturest  quite  my  pride? 

Give  love  to  me— who  warm'th  me  stiU^ 

Who  lov'th  me  still? — 
Give  ardent  fingers 
Give  heartening  charcoal-warmers, 
Give  me,  the  lonesomest. 
The  ice  (ah!  seven-fold  frozen  ice,. 
For  very  enemies. 
For  foes,  doth  make  one  tnirst), 
Give,  yield  to  me, 
Cruellest  foe, 
—Thyself  I 

Away! 

There  fled  he  surely. 

My  final,  only  comrade, 

My  greatest  foe. 

Mine  unfamiliar — 

My  hangman-God!  .  .  i 

—Nay! 

Come  thou  back! 
With  all  of  thy  great  tortures! 
To  me  the  last  of  lonesome  ones. 
Oh,  come  thou  back!  ,  •  vi^ 

All  my  hot  tears  in  streamlets  tricwe 
Their  course  to  thee! 
And  all  my  final  hearty  fervour— 
Up-glow'th  to  thee! 
Oh,  come  thou  back,  ^ 

Mine  unfamiliar  God!  my  paml 
My  final  bliss! 


«55 


256  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  ly 

2. 

. — Here,  however,  Zarathustra  could  no  longer  restrain 
himself;  he  took  his  staff  and  struck  the  wailer  with  all 
his  might.  "Stop  this,"  cried  he  to  him  with  wrathful  laugh- 
ter, "stop  this,  thou  stage-player!  Thou  false  coiner! 
Thou  liar  from  the  very  heart!     I  know  thee  well! 

I  will  soon  make  warm  legs  to  thee,  thou  evil  magician: 
I  know  well  how— to  make  it  hot  for  such  as  thou ! " 

— "Leave  off,''  said  the  old  man,  and  sprang  up  from 
the  ground,  "strike  me  no  more,  O  Zarathustra!  I  did  it 
only  for  amusement! 

That  kind  of  thing  belongeth  to  mine  art.  Thee  thy- 
self, I  wanted  to  put  to  the  proof  when  I  gave  this  per- 
formance.   And  verily,  thou  hast  well  detected  me! 

But  thou  thyself — ^hast  given  me  no  small  proof  of  thy- 
self: thou  art  hardy  thou  wise  Zarathustra!  Hard  strikest 
thou  with  thy  ^truths/  thy  cudgel  forceth  from  me— this 
truth!" 

—"Flatter  not,"  answered  Zarathustra,  still  excited  and 
frowning,  "thou  stage-player  from  the  heart!  Thou  art 
false:  why  speakest  thou — of  truth! 

Thou  peacock  of  peacocks,  thou  sea  of  vanity;  what 
didst  thou  represent  before  me,  thou  evil  magician;  whom 
was  I  meant  to  believe  in  when^thou  wailedst  in  such  wise?'' 

"The  penitent  in  spirit,''  said  the  old  man,  "it  was  him— 
I  represented ;  thou  thyself  once  devisedst  this  expression— 

—The  poet  and  magician  who  at  last  tumeth  his  spirit 
against  himself,  the  transformed  one  who  freezeth  to  death 
by  his  bad  science  and  conscience. 

And  just  acknowledge  it:  it  was  long,  O  Zarathustra,  be- 
fore thou  discoveredst  my  trick  and  lie!  Thou  believedst 
in  my  distress  when  thou  heldest  my  head  with  both  thy 
hands, — 

.  — I  heard  thee  lament  Ve  have  loved  him  too  little,  loved 
him  too  little! '  Because  I  so  far  deceived  thee,  my  wicked- 
ness rejoiced  in  me." 

"Thou  mayest  have  deceived  subtler  ones  than  I,"  said 
Zarathustra  sternly.  "I  am  not  on  my  guard  against  de- 
ceivers; I  have  to  be  without  precaution:  so  willeth  my  lot. 


LXV— THE  MAGICIAN 


257 


Thou  however,— wjwi  deceive:  so  far  do  I  know  theel 
Thou  must  ever  be  equivocal,  trivocal,  quadrivocal,  and 
quinquivocall  Even  what  thou  hast  now  confessed,  is  not 
nearly  true  enough  nor  false  enough  for  me! 

Thou  bad  false  coiner,  how  couldst  thou  do  otherwise! 
Thy  very  malady  wouldst  thou  whitewash  if  thou  showed 
thyself  naked  to  thy  physician. 

Thus  didst  thou  whitewash  thy  lie  before  me  when  thou 
saidst-  'I  did  so  only  for  amusement!'  There  was  also 
seriousness  therein,  thou  art  something  of  a  penitent-m- 

^^i" divine  thee  well:  thou  hast  become  the  enchanter  of 
all  the  world;  but  for  thyself  thou  hast  no  lie  or  artifice 
left —thou  art  disenchanted  to  thyself! 

Thou  hast  reaped  disgust  as  thy  one  truth.  No  word  m 
thee  is  any  longer  genuine,  but  thy  mouth  is  so:  that  is 
to  say,  the  disgust  that  cleaveth  unto  thy  mouth." 

—"Who  art  thou  at  all!"  cried  here  the  old  magician 
with  defiant  voice,  "who  dareth  to  speak  thus  unto  me,  the 
greatest  man  now  living?"— and  a  green  flash  shot  from 
his  eye  at  Zarathustra,    But  immediately  after  he  changed, 

and  said  sadly:  ,  .     ,  ,.       ^  j     ^u 

"0  Zarathustra,  I  am  weary  of  it,  I  am  disgusted  with 

mine  arts,  I  am  not  great,  why  do  I  dissemble!     But  thou 

knowest  it  well— I  sought  for  greatness! 
A  great  man  I  wanted  to  appear,  and  persuaded  many; 

but  the  lie  hath  been  beyond  my  power.     On  it  do  I 

collaDse 
O  Zarathustra,  everything  is  a  lie  in  me;  but  that  I 

collapse— this  my  collapsing  is  gewMtwe/"— 

"It  honoureth  thee,"  said  Zarathustra  gloomily,  looking 
down  with  sidelong  glance,  "it  honoureth  thee  that  thou 
soughtest  for  greatness,  but  it  betrayeth  thee  also,     ihou 

art  not  great.  ,  ,  ,     v        ^    * 

Thou  bad  old  magician,  that  is  the  best  and  the  honestest 
thing  I  honour  in  thee,  that  thou  hast  become  weary  of  thy- 
self, and  hast  expressed  it:  'I  am  not  great.'         _ 

Therein  do  I  honour  thee  as  a  penitent-m-spint,  and 
although  only  for  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  in  that  one  mo- 
ment wast  thou — genuine. 


258 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 


LXVI— OUT  OF  SERVICE 


259 


TwSff 


But  tell  me,  what  seekest  thou  here  in  my  forests  and 

rocks?    And  if  thou  hast  put  thyself  in  my  way,  what  proof 

of  me  wouldst  thou  have? — 

— ^Wherein  didst  thou  put  me  to  the  test?" 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra,  and  his  eyes  sparkled.    But  the 

old  magician  kept  silence  for  a  while;  then  said  he:  "Did 

I  put  thee  to  the  test?    I — ^seek  only. 

0  Zarathustra,  I  seek  a  genuine  one,  a  right  one,  a 
simple  one,  an  unequivocal  one,  a  man  of  perfect  hon- 
esty, a  vessel  of  wisdom,  a  saint  of  knowledge,  a  great 
man  I 

Knowest  thou  it  not,  O  Zarathustra?  /  seek  Zara- 
thustra!' 

— ^And  here  there  arose  a  long  silence  between  them: 
Zarathustra,  however,  became  profoundly  absorbed  in 
thought,  so  that  he  shut  his  eyes.  But  afterwards  coming 
back  to  the  situation,  he  grasped  the  hand  of  the  magician, 
and  said,  full  of  politeness  and  policy: 

"Well!  Up  thither  leadeth  the  way,  there  is  the  cave 
of  Zarathustra.  In  it  mayest  thou  seek  him  whom  thou 
wouldst  fain  find. 

And  ask  counsel  of  mine  animals,  mine  eagle  and  my 
serpent:  they  shall  help  thee  to  seek.  My  cave  however 
is  large. 

1  myself,  to  be  sure — I  have  as  yet  seen  no  great  man. 
That  which  is  great,  the  acutest  eye  is  at  present  insensi- 
ble to  it.     It  is  the  kingdom  of  the  populace. 

Many  a  one  have  I  found  who  stretched  and  inflated 
himself,  and  the  people  cried:  *  Behold,  a  great  man  I'  But 
what  good  do  all  bellows  do  I  The  wind  cometh  out  at 
last. 

At  last  bursteth  the  frog  which  hath  inflated  itself  too 
long:  then  cometh  out  the  wind.  To  prick  a  swollen  one 
in  the  belly,  I  call  good  pastime.    Hear  that,  ye  boysl 

Our  to-day  is  of  the  popular:  who  still  knoweth  what 
is  great  and  what  is  small!  Who  could  there  seek  suc- 
cessfully for  greatness!  A  fool  only:  it  succeedeth  with 
fools. 

Thou  seekest  for  great  men,  thou  strange  fool?     Who 


taught  that  to  thee?    Is  to-day  the  tirne  for  it?    Oh,  thou 
bad  seeker,  why  dost  thou— tempt  me?" 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra,  comforted  in  his  heart,  and 
went  laughing  on  his  way. 

LXVI.— OUT  OF  SERVICE 

Not  long,  however,  after  Zarathustra  had  freed  himself 
from  the  magician,  he  again  saw  a  person  sittmg  beside 
the  path  which  he  followed,  namely  a  tall,  black  man,  with 
a  haggard,  pale  countenance:  this  «»a»^  Sieved  him  ex- 
ceediSly.  "Alas,"  said  he  to  his  heart,  "there  sitteth  dis- 
guised affliction ;  methinketh  he  is  of  the  type  of  the  priests: 
what  do  they  want  in  my  domain?  •  •         „j 

What!  Hardly  have  I  escaped  from  that  magician,  and 
must  another  necromancer  again  run  across  my  path,— 

—Some  sorcerer  with  laying-on-of-hands,  some  sombre 
wonder-worker  by  the  grace  of  God,  some  anomted  world- 
maligner,  whom,  may  the  devil  take!  ,,  u    -w 

But  the  devil  is  never  at  the  place  which  would  be  his 
right  place:  he  always  cometh  too  late,  that  cursed  dwarf 

and  club-foot!" —  .     ,     .     ..    t.     ,.    „„4 

Thus  cursed  Zarathustra  impatiently  jn  his  heart  and 
considered  how  with  averted  look  he  might  slip  past  the 
black  man.  But  behold,  it  came  about  otherwise.  For 
at  the  same  moment  had  the  sitting  one  already  perceiv^ 
him:  and  not  unlike  one  whom  an  unexpected  happiness 
overtaketh,  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  went  straight  to- 

wards  Zarathustra.  ^^,, 

«Whoever  thou  art,  thou  traveller,"  said  he,  help  a 
strayed  one,  a  seeker,  an  old  man,  who  may  here  easily 

'^'^The^worid  here  is  strange  to  me,  and  remote;  wild  beasts 
also  did  I  hear  howling;  and  he  who  could  have  given  me 
protection— he  is  himself  no  more.  onrT^nrJfP 

I  was  seeking  the  last  pious  man,  a  saint  and  an  anchonte 
who,  alone  in  his  forest,  had  not  yet  heard  of  what  all 
the  world  knoweth  at  present." 


26o 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 


'What  doth  all  the  world  know  at  present?"  asked  Zara- 
thustra.  "Perhaps  that  the  old  God  no  longer  liveth,  in 
whom  all  the  world  once  believed?" 

"Thou  sayest  it,"  answered  the  old  man  sorrowfully. 
"And  I  served  that  old  God  until  his  last  hour. 

Now,  however,  am  I  out  of  service,  without  master, 
and  yet  not  free;  likewise  am  I  no  longer  merry  even  for 
an  hour,  except  it  be  in  recollections. 

Therefore  did  I  ascend  into  these  mountains,  that  I 
might  finally  have  a  festival  for  myself  once  more,  as  be- 
cometh  an  old  pope  and  church-father:  for  know  it,  that 
I  am  the  last  pope! — a  festival  of  pious  recollections  and 
divine  services. 

Now,  however,  is  he  himself  dead,  the  most  pious  of  men, 
the  saint  in  the  forest,  who  praised  his  God  constantly 
with  singing  and  mumbling. 

He  himself  found  I  no  longer  when  I  found  his  cot — 
but  two  wolves  found  I  therein,  which  howled  on  account 
of  his  death, — for  all  animals  loved  him.  Then  did  I  haste 
away. 

Had  I  thus  come  in  vain  into  these  forests  and  moun- 
tains? Then  did  my  heart  determine  that  I  should 
seek  another,  the  most  pious  of  all  those  who  believe 
not  in  God — ,  my  heart  determined  that  I  should  seek 
Zarathustra ! " 

Thus  spake  the  hoary  man,  and  gazed  with  keen  eyes 
at  him  who  stood  before  him.  Zarathustra  however  seized 
the  hand  of  the  old  pope  and  regarded  it  a  long  while  with 
admiration. 

"Lo!  thou  venerable  one,"  said  he  then,  "what  a  fine 
and  long  hand!  That  is  the  hand  of  one  who  hath  ever 
dispensed  blessings.  Now,  however,  doth  it  hold  fast 
him  whom  thou  seekest,  me,  Zarathustra. 

It  is  I,  the  ungodly  Zarathustra,  who  saith:  'Who  is  un- 
godlier  than  I,  that  I  may  enjoy  his  teaching?'  " — 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra,  and  penetrated  with  his  glances 
the  thoughts  and  arrear-thoughts  of  the  old  pope.  At  last 
the  latter  began: 

"He  who  most  loved  and  possessed  him  hath  now  also 
lost  him  most — : 


LXVI— OUT  OF  SERVICE 


261 


_Lo  I  myself  am  surely  the  most  godless  of  us  at  pres- 

''^  "d  *pSL'"howevTr  did  no.  answer,  b„.  looked  aside 

timidlv   with  a  painful  and  gloomy  expression. 

'^"^S  Wm  go,'^aid  Zarathustra,. aherpr^^^^^^    medita- 

♦v  rfLv,  TnSkest  only  in  praise  of  this  dead  one,  yet  thou 
Itwest  as'^eK^         h'e  was,  and  that  he  went  cunous 

^T^:  spea.  before  three  eye,"  said  ^e  f  Pope^^^^ 
L"^e  äuglSnÄn^^a^it^uta  M^^^^^^^^      -y  well 
'^My  love  served  him  long  years  my  will  foUowed  all  his 
will/  A  good  servant,,  however,  ^n«^^^^  ÄÄ 
many  a  thing  even  which  a  m^ste'^^^^^^^^^  "verily,  he  did 

He  was  a  hidden  God   f^l^  «  ,f7^'/,ecret  ways.    At 
not  come  by  his  son  otherwise  than  by  secret  way 

the  door  of  his  faith  standeth  adult^/y^  ^^^^ 

Whoever  extoUeth  him  as  a  God  ot  love  ao 

Ä  Sf  irÄing^-tÄ  Sespecive  o< 
reward  and  requital.  ,    ,     Orient,  then 

„aT!;r,^?ÄÄXl'aä  t/^  a  he,,  .0. 
the  delight  of  his  favourites.  ^       jj 

aXiS,rrSe'a%SÄn\W.  b.  ..t 

like  a  '«"i"L°l1ÄdW  in  his  chimney-coiner,  fret- 
J^^a^onn  f  Us^eTleU  wor,d-»eary  --«eary, 
S  0^  Z  hesuffocated  of  his  a„-too-great  p,.y. 


.202 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 


LXVII— THE  UGLIEST  MAN 


263 


"Thou   old   pope,"   said   here  Zarathustra  interposing, 
"hast  thou  seen  that  with  thine  eyes?    It  could  well  have 
happened  in  that  way:  in  that  way,  and  also  otherwise/ 
When  Gods  die  they  always  die  many  kinds  of  death. 

Well!  At  all  events,  one  way  or  other — ^he  is  gone! 
He  was  counter  to  the  taste  of  mine  ears  and  eyes;  worse 
than  that  I  should  not  like  to  say  against  him. 

I  love  everything  that  looketh  bright  and  speaketh  hon- 
estly. But  he— thou  knowest  it,  forsooth,  thou  old  priest, 
there  was  something  of  thy  type  in  him,  the  priest-type— 
he  was  equivocal. 

He  was  also  indistinct.  How  he  raged  at  us,  this  wrath- 
snorter,  because  we  understood  him  badly!  But  why  did 
he  not  speak  more  clearly? 

And  if  the  fault  lay  in  our  ears,  why  did  he  give  us 
ears  that  heard  him  badly?  If  there  was  dirt  in  our  ears, 
well!  who  put  it  in  them? 

Too  much  miscarried  with  him,  this  potter  who  had 
not  learned  thoroughly!  That  he  took  revenge  on  his  pots 
and  creations,  however,  because  they  turned  out  badly — 
that  was  a  sin  against  good  taste. 

There  is  also  good  taste  in  piety:  this  at  last  said:  'Away 
with  such  a  God!  Better  to  have  no  God,  better  to  set  up 
destiny  on  one's  own  account,  better  to  be  a  fool,  better 
to  be  God  oneself!'" 

—"What  do  I  hear!"  said  then  the  old  pope,  with  in- 
tent ears;  "O  Zarathustra,  thou  art  more  pious  than  thou 
believest,  with  such  an  unbelief!  Some  God  in  thee  hath 
converted  thee  to  thine  ungodliness. 

.  Is  it  not  thy  piety  itself  which  no  longer  letteth  thee 
believe  in  a  God?  And  thine  over-great  honesty  will  yet 
lead  thee  even  beyond  good  and  evil! 

Behold,  what  hath  been  reserved  for  thee?  Thou  hast 
eyes  and  hands  and  mouth,  which  have  been  predestined 
for  blessing  from  eternity.  One  doth  not  bless  with  the 
hand  alone. 

Nigh  unto  thee,  though  thou  professest  to  be  the  ungod- 
liest  one,  I  feel  a  hale  and  holy  odour  of  long  benedictions: 
I  feel  glad  and  grieved  thereby. 


TPt  me  be  thy  guest,  O  Zarathustra,  for  a  single  night! 
.ri  ^  nn  P^rA  shall  I  HOW  feel  better  than  with  thee!  "— 
""^^tenr  S^^^^^^^^  said  Zarathustra  with  great 

astonSmen^^  ^'up  thither  leadeth  the  way,  there  heth  the 

Tlalf  ?oS^  would  I  conduct  thee  thither  myself, 
thou  V  L^^^^^^^^  for  I  love  all  pious  men.  But  now  a 
rjordistress  calleth  me  hastily  away  from  thee 
^In  my  domain  shall  no  one  come  to  grief ;  "^y  cave  is  a 
gooS  haven.  And  best  of  all  would  I  like  ^^^^  put  every 
forrowful  one  again  on  firm  land  and  ß™  legs 

Who  however  could  take  thy  melancholy  off  thy  shoul- 
H  J?     For  'hat 'l  am  too  weak.    Long,  verily   should  we 
W  to  wÄ    some  one  re-awoke  thy  God  for  thee 
For  thTold  God  liveth  no  more:  he  is  indeed  dead.'^ 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


LXVII._THE  UGLIEST  MAN 

And  aeain  did  Zarathustra's  feet  run  through  moun- 
tai^^^n'd  f orSts!  and  his  eyes  sought  and -gH 
where  was  he  to  be  seen  whom  they  wanted  ^^^^^^ 

thev  flow  like  milk  into  my  soul    —  , 

WhenT  however,  the  path  again  curved  ^und^  a  oc^ 
all  at  once  the  lands-pe  change^^^^^^^^  ^^0^^^ 
into  a  realm  of  death.  Here  »"Stiea  auni. 
cliffs,  without  any  grass,  tree,  or  bird  s  yj«=f^^^  J^'^f  7ey 
11  i^.vv.  oil  animals  avoided,  even  the  oeasts  01  prey, 
a  valley  which  all  animais  avoiu    ,  serpent  came 

except  that  a  species  of  ugly,  thick,  8^^;°  =  J'^    ^ 
here  to  die  when  they  became  od.    Therefore  the  snep, 
herds  called  this  valley:  «Serpent-death. 


LXVII— THE  UGLIEST  MAN 


265 


264  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 

Zarathustra,  however,  became  absorbed  in  dark  recol- 
lections, for  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  had  once  before  stood 
in  this  valley.  And  much  heaviness  settled  on  his  mind 
so  that  he  walked  slowly  and  always  more  slowly,  and  at 
last  stood  still.  Then,  however,  when  he  opened  his  eyes 
he  saw  something  sitting  by  the  wayside  shaped  like  a  man| 
and  hardly  like  a  man,  something  nondescript.  And  all 
at  once  there  came  over  Zarathustra  a  great  shame,  because 
he  had  gazed  on  such  a  thing.  Blushing  up  to  the  very 
roots  of  his  white  hair,  he  turned  aside  his  glance,  and 
raised  his  foot  that  he  might  leave  this  ill-starred  place. 
Then,  however,  became  the  dead  wilderness  vocal:  for  from 
the  ground  a  noise  welled  up,  gurgling  and  rattling,  as  water 
gurgleth  and  rattleth  at  night  through  stopped-up  water- 
pipes;  and  at  last  it  turned  into  human  voice  and  human 
speech: — it  sounded  thus: 

"Zarathustra!  Zarathustra!  Read  my  riddle!  Say, 
say!  What  is  the  revenge  on  the  witness? 

I  entice  thee  back;  here  is  smooth  ice!  See  to  it,  see 
to  it,  that  thy  pride  do  not  here  break  its  legs! 

Thou  thinkest  thyself  wise,  thou  proud  Zarathustra! 
Read  then  the  riddle,  thou  hard  nut-cracker,— the  riddle 
that  I  am!    Say  then:  who  am  //'' 

—When  however  Zarathustra  had  heard  these  words,— 
what  think  ye  then  took  place  in  his  soul?  Pity  overcame 
him;  and  he  sank  down  all  at  once,  like  an  oak  that  hath 
long  withstood  many  tree-fellers,— heavily,  suddenly,  to  the 
terror  even  of  those  who  meant  to  fell  it.  But  immediately 
he  got  up  again  from  the  ground,  and  his  countenance  be- 
came stern. 

"I  know  thee  well,"  said  he,  with  a  brazen  voice,  'Hhou 
art  the  murderer  of  God  I    Let  me  go. 

Thou  couldst  not  endure  him  who  beheld  thee, — who  ever 
beheld  thee  through  and  through,  thou  ugliest  man.  Thou 
tookest  revenge  on  this  witness!" 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra  and  was  about  to  go;  but  the 
nondescript  grasped  at  a  corner  of  his  garment  and  began 
anew  to  gurgle  and  seek  for  words.  "Stay,"  said  he  at 
last— 

— "Stay!     Do  not  pass  by!     I  have  divined  what  axe 


it  was  that  struck  thee  to  the  ground:  hail  to  thee,  O 
Zarathustra,  that  thou  art  again  upon  thy  feet! 

Thou  hast  divined,  I  know  it  well,  how  the  man  feeleth 
who  killed  him,-the  murderer  of  God.  Stay!  Sit  down 
here  beside  me;  it  is  not  to  no  purpose.  ..  j        , 

To  whom  would  I  go  but  unto  thee?  Stay,  sit  downl 
Do  not  however  look  at  me!     Honour  thus— mine  ugii- 

Thev  persecute  me:  now  art  thou  my  last  refuge.  Not 
with  their  hatred,  not  with  their  bailiffs;-Oh,  such  perse- 
cution  would  I  mock  at,  and  be  proud  and  cheerful! 

Hath  not  all  success  hitherto  been  with  the  well- 
persecuted  ones?  And  he  who  persecuteth  well  learneth 
readily  to  be  ob  sequent— vihtn  once  he  is— put  behind  I 

But  it  is  their  pity —  ^  j  a      *« 

^Their  pity  is  it  from  which  I  flee  away  and  flee  to 

thee.     O  Zarathustra,  protect  me,  thou,  my  last  refuge, 

thou  sole  one  who  divinedst  me:  ,    ,  ,,      i.     1  -n^ 

—Thou  hast  divined  how  the  man  feeleth  who  killed 
him  Stay!  And  if  thou  wilt  go,  thou  impatient  one,  go 
not  the  way  that  I  came.    TÄaf  way  is  bad.  ' 

Art  thou  angry  with  me  because  I  have  already  racked 
language  too  long?  Because  I  have  already  counselled 
thee?    But  know  that  it  is  I,  the  ugliest  man 

-Who  have  also  the  largest,  heaviest  feet  Where  / 
have  gone,  the  way  is  bad.    I  tread  all  paths  to  death 

and  destruction.  .  ^    ^i.«*   fVinn 

But  that  thou  passedst  me  by  m  silence,  that  ftou 

blushedst-I  saw  it  well:   thereby  did  I  know  thee  as 

Zarathustra.  ,  ^  ,  .    ^,^_    y.-^ 

Every  one  else  would  have  thrown  to  me  his  alms  ^,s 

pity,  in  look  and  speech.    But  for  that-I  am  not  beggar 

enough:  that  didst  thou  divine.  ,  f,j„i,ff„i 

For  that  I  am  too  rich,  rich  in  what  is  f^^fjjl^^ 

ugliest,   most  unutterable!      Thy   shame,   O   Zarathustra, 

''wkh  difficulty  did  I  get  out  of  the  crowd  of  *e  pitiful  -- 
that  I  might  find  the  only  one  who  at  present  teacheth  that 
'pity  is  obtrusive'— thyself,  O  Zarathustra! 
-Whether  it  be  the  pity  of  a  God,  or  whether  it  be 


2(i(> 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 


LXVII— THE  UGLIEST  MAN 


267 


human  pity,  it  is  offensive  to  modesty.  And  unwillingness 
to  help  may  be  nobler  than  the  virtue  that  rusheth  to  do  so. 

That  however — namely,  pity — is  called  virtue  itself  at 
present  by  all  petty  people: — they  have  no  reverence  for 
great  misfortune,  great  ugliness,  great  failure. 

Beyond  all  these  do  I  look,  as  a  dog  looketh  over  the 
backs  of  thronging  flocks  of  sheep.  They  are  petty,  good- 
wooled,  good-willed,  grey  people. 

As  the  heron  looketh  contemptuously  at  shallow  pools, 
with  backward-bent  head,  so  do  I  look  at  the  throng  of 
grey  little  waves  and  wills  and  souls. 

Too  long  have  we  acknowledged  them  to  be  right,  those 
petty  people:  so  we  have  at  last  given  them  power  as 
well; — and  now  do  they  teach  that  'good  is  only  what  petty 
people  call  good.' 

And  'truth'  is  at  present  what  the  preacher  spake  who 
himself  sprang  from  them,  that  singular  saint  and  advo- 
cate of  the  petty  people,  who  testified  of  himself:  'I — am 
the  truth.' 

That  immodest  one  hath  long  made  the  petty  people 
greatly  puffed  up, — he  who  taught  no  small  error  when 
he  taught:  'I — am  the  truth.' 

Hath  an  immodest  one  ever  been  answered  more  cour- 
teously?— Thou,  however,  O  Zarathustra,  passedst  him  by, 
and  saidst:  'Nay I     Nay!     Three  times  Nayl' 

Thou  warnedst  against  his  error;  thou  warnedst — the 
first  to  do  so — against  pity: — not  every  one,  not  none, 
but  thyself  and  thy  type. 

Thou  art  ashamed  of  the  shame  of  the  great  sufferer; 
and  verily  when  thou  sayest:  'From  pity  there  cometh  a 
heavy  cloud;  take  heed,  ye  men  I' 

— When  thou  teachest:  'All  creators  are  hard,  all  great 
love  is  beyond  their  pity:'  O  Zarathustra,  how  well  versed 
dost  thou  seem  to  me  in  weather-signs! 

Thou  thyself,  however, — warn  thyself  also  against  thy 
pity!  For  many  are  on  their  way  to  thee,  many  suffering, 
doubting,  despairing,  drowning,  freezing  ones — 

I  warn  thee  also  against  myself.  Thou  hast  read  my 
best,  my  worst  riddle,  myself,  and  what  I  have  done.  I 
know  the  axe  that  felleth  thee. 


But  he-Äflrf  to  die:  he  looked  with  eyes  which  beheld 
ev^y'/ri^-he  beheld  men's  depths  and  dregs,  all  his  hid- 

'ffif Jy'L^w'nÄSW:  he  crept  into  my  dirtiest 
cor^ers%is  most  prying,  over-intrusive,  over-pitiful  one 

%?e^r' beheld  me:  on  such  a  witness  I  would  have  re- 

^ThTSod'UoUdfeverything,  and  a/.,  ««a«:  that 
cÄd  to  die!  Man  camiot  .»d«re  it  that  such  a  witness 
should  live." 

TTi,,«!  snake  the  ugliest  man.    Zarathustra  however  got 
up^^nd  '^r^arS  to'go  on:  for  he  felt  frozen  to  the  very 

^'^Thou  nondescript,"  said  he,  "thou  warnedst jne  agamst 
thy  path.    As  thanks  for  it  I  praise  mme  to  thee.    Behold, 

"C^t^e  is  ltrgeTn7dLp"nÄmany  comers;  there 
finÄlItMUs  most  hidden  his  hiding-place.  And  close 
S?it  tS?e  are  a  hundred  lurking-places  ^d  by-places 
for  creeping  fluttering,  and  hoppmg  creatures. 

J^llsTÄXrfalsTfr^^^^^^^^^ 

And  talk  first  and  foremost  to  mine  animals!    The  proud- 
est Limtf  S  Ae  wisest  ariimal-they  might  weU  be  the 

fully  a/s^wly  even  than^b^^^^^ 

"^'^rtSr'Ä    s  S"  thought  he  in  his  heart, 
"how  ugly^how  wheezy,  how  full  of  hidden  shamd 

T>^Pv  t^ll  me  that  man  loveth  himself.    Ah,  how  great 
mus^tU  seS-lole  be!     How  much  contempt  is  opposed 

'°Even  this  man  hath  loved J^imsdf,  as  he  hath  despised 
himself,-a   great   lover   methinketh  he   is,   and        grea 

''T  one  have  I  yet  found  who  more  thoroughly  despised 


2X3& 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 


hihiself :  even  that  is  elevation.    Alas,  was  this  perhaps  the 
high^r  man  whose  cry  I  heard? 

I  love  the  great  despisers.    Man  is  something  that  hath 
to  be  surpassed." 


LXVIII.— THE  VOLUNTARY  BEGGAR 

When  Zarrithustra  had  left  the  ugliest  man,  he  was  chilled 
and  felt  lonesome:  for  much  coldness  and  lonesomeness 
came  over  his  spirit,  so  that  even  his  limbs  became  colder 
thereby.  When,  however,  he  wandered  on  and  on,  uphill 
and  down,  at  times  past  green  meadows,  though  also  some- 
times over  wild  stony  couches  where  formerly  perhaps  an 
impatient  brook  had  made  its  bed,  then  he  turned  all  at 
once  warmer  and  heartier  again. 

"What  hath  happened  unto  me?"  he  asked  himself, 
"something  warm  and  living  quickeneth  me;  it  must  be  in 
the  neighbourhood. 

Already  am  I  less  alon«?;  unconscious  companions  and 
brethren  rove  around  me;  their  warm  breath  toucheth  my 
soul." 

When,  however,  he  spied  about  and  sought  for  the  com- 
forters of  his  lonesomeness,  behold,  there  were  kine  there 
standing  together  on  an  eminence,  whose  proximity  and 
smell  had  warmed  his  heart.  Th»  kine,  however,  seemed 
to  listen  eagerly  to  a  speaker,  and  took  no  heed  of  him 
who  approached.  When,  however,  Zarathustra  was  quite 
nigh  unto  them,  then  did  he  hear  plainly  that  a  human 
voice  spake  in  the  midst  of  the  kine;  and  apparently  all 
of  them  had  turned  their  heads  toward»  the  speaker. 

Then  ran  Zarathustra  up  speedily  and  drove  the  animals 
aside;  for  he  feared  that  some  one  had  here  met  with 
harm,  which  the  pity  of  the  kine  would  hardly  be  able 
to  relieve.  But  in  this  he  was  deceived;  for  behold,  there 
sat  a  man  on  the  ground  who  seemed  to  be  persuading  the 
animals  to  have  no  fear  of  him,  a  peaceable  man  and 
Preacher-on-the-Mount,  out  of  whose  eyes  kindness  itself 
preached.  "What  dost  thou  seek  here?"  called  out  Zara- 
thustra in  astonishment. 


LXVIII— THE  VOLUNTARY  BEGGAR         269 

"What  do  I  here  seek?"  answered  he:  "the  same  that 
thou^eekeslthou  mischief-maker;  that  is  to  say,  happi- 

""""ToXt  en?  however,  I  would  fain  learn  of  these  kine. 
FoT  I^dl  thee  that  I  hkve  already  talked  hal  a  mornmg 
Äem  a.d  jus.  now  were  they  atau.  to  give  me  tar 
sinswer     Why  dost  thou  disturb  them? 

F^reot  we  be  converted  and  become  as  kine,  we  shall 
in  no  wise  enter  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven  For  we 
ZZ  to  learn  from  them  one  thing:  ruminating. 

AnH  verifv  although  a  man  should  gain  the  whole 
wotw  S  yet  not  learn  one  thing,  ruminating,  what 
;Suld  irprofif  himl     He  would  not  be  rid  of  his  afflic- 

^°'*  Wk  areat  affliction:  that,  however,  is  at  present  called 
du7^  Who  S  not  at  prkent  his  heart,  Ws  mouth  and 
il%es  full  of  disgust?    Thou  alsol    Thou  also!    But  be 

^'^hisloaÄ'Treacher-on-the-Mount,  and  turned  then 

l^Är  %ho"^Ä^^^  ^e  exclaimed, 

frightened,  arid  sprang  VPj;j"\jf^f  ^s'  is  Zarathustra 
<^TViiQ  i«;  the  man  without  aisgust,  iuis  *=»  ^".     . 

gether  like  one  to  whom  a  precious  g^ft  a°d  J^J^^^^ 
fallen  unawares  from  heaven.    The  kine.  However,  g 

once  cast  away  pat  riches  ^^ 


270  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 

"thou  knowest  it,  forsooth.    So  I  went  at  last  to  the  animals 
and  to  those  kine." 

"Then  learnedst  thou,"  interrupted  Zarathustra,  "how 
much  harder  it  is  to  give  properly  than  to  take  properly, 
and  that  bestowing  well  is  an  art — the  last,  subtlest  master- 
art  of  kindness." 

"Especially  nowadays,"  answered  the  voluntary  beggar: 
"at  present,  that  is  to  say,  when  everything  low  hath  be- 
come rebellious  and  exclusive  and  haughty  in  its  manner— 
in  the  manner  of  the  populace. 

For  the  hour  hath  come,  thou  knowest  it  forsooth,  for 
the  great,  evil,  long,  slow  mob-and-slave-insurrection:  it 
extendeth  and  extendethi 

Now  doth  it  provoke  the  lower  classes,  all  benevolence 
and  petty  giving;  and  the  overrich  may  be  on  their  guard! 

Whoever  at  present  drip,  like  bulgy  bottles  out  of  all-too- 
small  necks: — of  such  bottles  at  present  one  willingly  break- 
eth  the  necks. 

Wanton  avidity,  bilious  envy,  careworn  revenge,  popu- 
lace-pride: all  these  struck  mine  eye.  It  is  no  longer  true 
that  the  poor  are  blessed.  The  kingdom  of  heaven,  how- 
ever, is  with  the  kine." 

"And  why  is  it  not  with  the  rich?"  asked  Zarathustra 
temptingly,  while  he  kept  back  the  kine  which  sniffed  famil- 
iarly at  the  peaceful  one. 

"Why  dost  thou  tempt  me?"  answered  the  other.  "Thou 
knowest  it  thyself  better  even  than  I.  What  was  it  drove 
me  to  the  poorest,  O  Zarathustra?  Was  it  not  my  disgust 
at  the  richest? 

— ^At  the  culprits  of  riches,  with  cold  eyes  and  rank 
thoughts,  who  pick  up  profit  out  of  all  kinds  of  rubbish — 
at  this  rabble  that  stinketh  to  heaven, 

— ^At  this  gilded,  falsified  populace,  whose  fathers  were 
pickpockets,  or  carrion-crows,  or  rag-pickers,  with  wives 
compliant,  lewd  and  forgetful: — for  they  are  all  of  them 
not  far  different  from  harlots — 

Populace  above,  populace  below!  What  are  'poor'  and 
'rich'  at  present!  That  distinction  did  I  unlearn, — then  did 
I  flee  away  further  and  ever  further,  until  I  came  to  those 
kine." 


LXVIII— THE  VOLUNTARY  BEGGAR         271 

Thns  snake  the  peaceful  one,  and  puffed  himself  and 
neS^ed  v^th  hfs  wUs:  so  that  the  kine  wondered  anew 
?SStrT  however,  kept  looking  into  his  face  with  a 
SÄ  time  the  mln  talked  so  severely-and  shook 

^"Äu'doesf  Violence  to  thyself,  thou  P-che-n-^^ 
Mount  when  thou  usest  such  severe  words.  For  such 
sÄ  neuSer  thy  mouth  nor  thine  eye  have  been  given 

PeS  tÄndest  com     Certainly  however,  thou  art 

averse  to  ^^^  .i°.y/^^°^,^,!r2lweTJ•the  voluntary 
"Thou  hast  divined  me  wel ,     answereu  i  ^ 

beggar  with  lightened  heart.    "I  love  honey,  1  also  grina 

S   f o7l  have  sought  out  what  tasteth  sweetly  and  mak- 

^^'iiS  tÄuireth  a  long  tirne,  a  day's-work  and  a 
mouth's-work  for  gentle  idlers  and  sluggards 

Furthest,  to  be  sure,  have  those  kme  ^rned  it.  to^ 
have  devis^ 'ruminating  and  lying  xn  the  sun.  They  also 
abstain  from  all  heavy  thoughts  which  «^flate  th^  heart^^ 

—"Well!"  said  Zarathustra,  "thou  shouldst  also  see  »w»c 
animarmine  eagle  and  my  serpent,-their  like  do  not  at 

P^af  thir  tdeth  the  way  to  my  -e^e  to^ghj 
its  guest.    And  talk  to  mine  animals  of  the  happiness  of 

^"^UntiT  I  myself  come  home.     For  now  a  cry  of  dis- 

trei'Sfeti  -"hastily  away. from  thee     A^^^^^ 

thou  find  new  honey  with  me,  ice-cold,  golden-comb  üoney, 

''Vow,  however,  take  leave  at  once  f  tl^J^«^^  *^« 
strange  one!  thou  amiable  one!  though  it  be  hard  for  thee. 
For  Ly  are  thy  warmest  «ends  and  preceptor^ 

-"One  excepted,  whom  I  hold  still  dearer     ^olSS 
the  voluntary  beggar.    "Thou  thyself  art  good,  O  Zara 
thustra,  and  better  even  than  a  cow! 


f- 


^72  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 

"Away,  away  with  thee!  thou  evil  flatterer!"  cried  Zara- 
thustra  mischievously,  "why  dost  thou  spoil  me  with  such 
praise  and  flattery-honey?" 

"Away,  away  from  me!"  cried  he  once  more,  and  heaved 
his  stick  at  the  fond  beggar,  who,  however,  ran  nimblv 
away.  ^ 

LXIX.— THE  SHADOW 

Scarcely  however  was  the  voluntary  beggar  gone  in  haste, 
and  Zarathustra  again  alone,  when  he  heard  behind  hini 
a  new  voice  which  called  out:  "Stay!  Zarathustra!  Do 
wait!  It  is  myself,  forsooth,  O  Zarathustra,  myself,  thy 
shadow!"  But  Zarathustra  did  not  wait;  for  a  sudden 
irritation  came  over  him  on  account  of  the  crowd  and  the 
crowding  in  his  mountains.  "Whither  hath  my  lonesome- 
ness  gone?"  spake  he. 

"It  is  verily  becoming  too  much  for  me;  these  moun- 
tains swarm;  my  kingdom  is  no  longer  of  this  worid;  I 
require  new  mountains. 

My  shadow  calleth  me?  What  matter  about  my  shadow! 
Let  it  run  after  me!     I — ^run  away  from  it." 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra  to  his  heart  and  ran  away.  But 
the  one  behind  followed  after  him,  so  that  immediately 
there  were  three  runners,  one  after  the  other— namely,  fore- 
most the  voluntary  beggar,  then  Zarathustra,  and  thirdly, 
and  hindmost,  his  shadow.  But  not  long  had  they  run  thus 
when  Zarathustra  became  conscious  of  his  folly,  and  shook 
off  with  one  jerk  all  his  irritation  and  detestation. 

"What!"  said  he,  "have  not  the  most  ludicrous  things 
always  happened  to  us  old  anchorites  and  saints? 

Verily,  my  folly  hath  grown  big  in  the  mountains!  Now 
do  I  hear  six  old  fools'  legs  rattling  behind  one  another! 

But  doth  Zarathustra  need  to  be  frightened  by  his 
shadow?  Also,  methinketh  that  after  all  it  hath  longer  legs 
than  mine." 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra,  and,  laughing  with  eyes  and 
entrails,  he  stood  still  and  turned  round  quickly— and  be- 
hold, he  almost  thereby  threw  his  shadow  and  follower 
to  the  ground,  so  closely  had  the  latter  followed  at  his 


LXIX— THE  SHADOW 


273 


A  cr.  tut^qV  wa<;  he  For  when  Zarathustra  scruti- 
^^M'hTm  >^th  h?g7ance  he  was  frightened  as  by  a  sudden 
S^pÄ^  ä  slenler,  swarthy,  hollow  and  worn-out  did 

^  "WÄ  ?£?"  asked  Zarathustra  vehemenüy,  "what 
does? L^r  he?e?     And   why   caUest   thou    thyself   my 

I  plS iee  not-well,  O  Zarathustra!  therein  do  I  admire 

K  :^ndier'am  rio  have  walked  long  at  thy  heels; 
A  wanderer  am  1,  «""  '  '^  .     ,     without  a  home: 

Ä  v^rt  JTaÄrofbeÄ  Wandering 

^5rrt  \  STerteÄ  "^^^  ^  «very 
wiS^unsetS,  driven  about?    O  earth,  thou  hast  become 

%revU'suXce  have  I  already  sat,  like  tired  dust  have 
I  fallen  Seep  on  mirrors  and  window-panes:  everything 
L£a  from  me,  nothing  giveth;  I  become  thin-I  am  al- 

"" ffteTthee'  howe^er.'ö  Zarathustra,  did  I  fly  and  hie 

r„?  SsCe-lS^fÄ*'  \Ti  'S.  sun.    The  devi. 
■^^ÄlngÄrluls  permitted':  »  said  I  to  myseit. 


^i' 


II         274  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 

Into  the  coldest  water  did  I  plunge  with  head  and  heart. 
Ah,  how  oft  did  I  stand  there  naked  on  that  account  like 
a  red  crab  I  ' 

Ah,  where  have  gone  all  my  goodness  and  all  my  shame 
and  all  my  belief  in  the  good!  Ah,  where  is  the  lying 
innocence  which  I  once  possessed,  the  innocence  of  the 
good  and  of  their  noble  lies! 

Too  oft,  verily,  did  I  follow  close  to  the  heels  of  truth: 
then  did  it  kick  me  on  the  face.  Sometimes  I  meant  to  lie 
and  behold !  then  only  did  I  hit— the  truth.  ' 

Too  much  hath  become  clear  unto  me:  now  it  doth  not 
concern  me  any  more.  Nothing  liveth  any  longer  that  I 
love, — ^how  should  I  still  love  myself? 

'To  live  as  I  incline,  or  not  to  live  at  all':  so  do  I  wish; 
so  wisheth  also  the  holiest.  But  alas!  how  have  /  still- 
inclination? 

Have  /—still  a  goal?  A  haven  towards  which  my  sail 
is  set? 

A  good  wind?  Ah,  he  only  who  knoweth  whither  he  sail- 
eth,  knoweth  what  wind  is  good,  and  a  fair  wind  for  him. 

What  still  remaineth  to  me?  A  heart  weary  and  flip- 
pant; an  unstable  will;  fluttering  wings;  a  broken  back- 
bone. 

This  seeking  for  my  home:  O  Zarathustra,  dost  thou 
know  that  this  seeking  hath  been  my  home-sickening;  it 
eateth  me  up. 

'Where  is — my  home?'  For  it  do  I  ask  and  seek,  and 
have  sought,  but  have  not  found  it.  O  eternal  every- 
where, O  eternal  nowhere,  O  eternal — ^in-vain!" 

Thus  spake  the  shadow,  and  Zarathustra's  countenance 
lengthened  at  his  words.  "Thou  art  my  shadow!"  said  he 
at  last  sadly. 

"Thy  danger  is  not  small,  thou  free  spirit  and  wanderer! 
Thou  hast  had  a  bad  day:  see  that  a  still  worse  evening 
doth  not  overtake  thee! 

To  such  unsettled  ones  as  thou,  seemeth  at  last  even 
a  prisoner  blessed.  Didst  thou  ever  see  how  captured 
criminals  sleep?  They  sleep  quietly,  they  enjoy  their  new 
security. 


LXX— NOONTIDE 


275 


T^^x^^rP  lest  in  the  end  a  narrow  faith  capture  t^hee,  a 
haKorous  Jelusionl     For  now  everything  that  is  nar- 

onrf  filled  seduceth  and  tempteth  thee. 
''Thou  hast  lost  thy  goal.     Alas,  how  wilt  thou  forego 
an!  forge^^^^^^^^  ^Thereby-hast  thou  also  lost  thy 

T^u'^'m'raire?  To'that  it  may  again  become  bright 
arountmrTtreU  -t  I  stiU  be  a  lo„^^^ 
upon  my  legs.    In  the  evemng,  however,  tnere  wiu  u 

dancing  with  mel " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 

LXX.— NOONTIDE 
-And  Zarathustra  ran  and  ran,  but  he  found  no  one 

^^'  S'anTÄ  M^  Sdrand'At'S^o^ 
S^ÄSJ^About  the  hour  of  -n.^^^^  ^^-^^ 

!:Äts«n^^^^^ 

confronting  the  wanderer.    Then  he  teit  rncimc        m 
a  little  thirst,  and  to  break  off  .for,^;^  his  am  out- 
grapes.     When,  however,  he  had  J  ^f  ^^  ^nclSd  f or 
stretched  for  that  purpose,  he  f^j*  still  more  incimw 
something  else-namely,  to  he  do?^  Reside  the  tree 
*he  hour  of  perfect  noontide  and  sleep. 

This  Zarathustra  did;  and  no  ^^J^^'J^^t^^J^^^^^^^ 
self  on  the  ground  in  the  stillness  ai^d  fecrecy  01  m 
&C11   uu   luc  B  forgotten  his  little  tmrst,  ana 

variegated  grass,  than  he  had  J<''^6°""'  ,  ,„.„  .„uh-  "One 
lell  asleep.    For  as  the  proverb  of  Zarathustra  saitn. 


LXX— NOONTIDE 


277 


276  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 

thing  is  more  necessary  than  the  other."  Only  that  his 
eyes  remained  open:— for  they  never  grew  weary  of  view- 
ing  and  admiring  the  tree  and  the  love  of  the  vine.  In 
falling  asleep,  however,  Zarathustra  spake  thus  to  his 
heart : 

"Hush!  Hush!  Hath  not  the  world  now  become  per- 
feet?    What  hath  happened  unto  me? 

As  a  delicate  wind  danceth  invisibly  upon  parqueted  seas 
light,  feather-light,  so — danceth  sleep  upon  me.  ' 

No  eye  doth  it  close  to  me,  it  leaveth  my  soul  awake. 
Light  is  it,  verily,  feather-light. 

It  persuadeth  me,  I  know  not  how,  it  toucheth  me  in- 
wardly with  a  caressing  hand,  it  constraineth  me.  Yea,  it 
constraineth  me,  so  that  my  soul  stretcheth  itself  out:—' 

—How  long  and  weary  it  becometh,  my  strange  soul! 
Hath  a  seventh-day  evening  come  to  it  precisely  at  noon- 
tide? Hath  it  already  wandered  too  long,  blissfully,  among 
good  and  ripe  things? 

It  stretcheth  itself  out,  long— longer!  it  lieth  still,  my 
strange  soul.  Too  many  good  things  hath  it  already  tasted; 
this  golden  sadness  oppresseth  it,  it  distorteth  its  mouth. 

•^As  a  ship  that  putteth  into  the  calmest  cove:— it  now 
draweth  up  to  the  land,  weary  of  long  voyages  and  uncer- 
tain seas.    Is  not  the  land  more  faithful? 

As  such  a  ship  huggeth  the  shore,  tuggeth  the  shore:— 
then  It  sufficeth  for  a  spider  to  spin  its  thread  from  the 
ship  to  the  land.    No  stronger  ropes  are  required  there. 

As  such  a  weary  ship  in  the  calmest  cove,  so  do  I  also 
now  repose,  nigh  to  the  earth,  faithful,  trusting,  waiting, 
bound  to  it  with  the  lightest  threads. 

O  happiness!  O  happiness!  Wilt  thou  perhaps  sing,  0 
my  soul?  Thou  liest  in  the  grass.  But  this  is  the  secret, 
solemn  hour,  when  no  shepherd  playeth  his  pipe. 

Take  care!  Hot  noontide  sleepeth  on  the  fields.  Do  not 
sing!     Hush!     The  world  is  perfect. 

Do  not  sing,  thou  prairie-bird,  my  soul!  Do  not  even 
whisper!  Lo— hush!  The  old  noontide  sleepeth,  it  moveth 
its  mouth:  doth  it  not  just  now  drink  a  drop  of  happi- 
ness— 


An  old  brown  drop  of  golden  happiness,  golden  jrin^ 
SomXTwhisketh  over  it,  its  happiness  laugheth.    Thus^ 

'^"Ä\S^in.S,"tlw  little  sumceth.for  happines^ 
IÄb^4ÄÄTuea-l^ 

Do  I  not  fall?     Have  I  not  fallen-harkl  into  the  well 

°^  "AhaoDenth  to  me?    Hush!    It  stingeth  me-alas 

to^e  heart?    To  the  heart!     Oh,  break  up  break  up, 

i,!Srt  ffter  such  happiness,  after  such  a  sting! 

""^  Ä?     HaAnoT^^^  world  just  now  become  per- 

fec-S"^  Round  and  ripe?    Oh,  for  the  ^«Men  rc^d  nng- 

^^^^.^^S^  H^Sz-aXsJ^SetchAself,  and 
ing  you—  ^. .  -     .        j  ^jg  a  time?    A 

Leave  me  alone!     iiusni     natii  ^^  Uoiit" 

gardl     mat?   Still  stretching  thyself,  yawning,  sighing, 
falling  into  deep  wells?  ^    y^^^^^^ 

4tet  fra^Äe^rU^-  heaven  upon 

^'"O  Wen  above  me,"  said  he  sighing,  and  sat  upright 
"ClZ^fZ"   Thou  hearkenest  unto  my  strange  soul? 


278 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 


LXXI— THE  GREETING 


279 


When  wilt  thou  drink  this  drop  of  dew  that  fell  down 
upon  all  earthly  things, — ^when  wilt  thou  drink  this  strange 
soul — 

^  — ^When,  thou  well  of  eternity!  thou  joyous,  awful,  noon- 
tide abyss!  when  wilt  thou  drink  my  soul  back  into  thee?" 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra,  and  rose  from  his  couch  beside 
the  tree,  as  if  awakening  from  a  strange  drimkenness:  and 
behold!  there  stood  the  sun  still  exactly  above  his  head. 
One  might,  however,  rightly  infer  therefrom  that  Zara- 
thustra had  not  then  slept  long. 


LXXI.— THE  GREETING 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  only  when  Zarathustra,  after 
long  useless  searching  and  strolling  about,  again  came 
home  to  his  cave.  When,  however,  he  stood  over  against 
it,  not  more  than  twenty  paces  therefrom,  the  thing  hap^ 
pened  which  he  now  least  of  all  expected:  he  heard  anew 
the  great  cry  0}  distress.  And  extraordinary!  this  time  the 
cry  came  out  of  his  own  cave.  It  was  a  long,  manifold, 
peculiar  cry,  and  Zarathustra  plainly  distinguished  that  it 
was  composed  of  many  voices:  although  heard  at  a  dis- 
tance it  might  sound  like  the  cry  out  of  a  single  mouth. 

Thereupon  Zarathustra  rushed  forward  to  his  cave,  and 
behold!  what  a  spectacle  awaited  him  after  that  concert! 
For  there  did  they  all  sit  together  whom  he  had  passed 
during  the  day:  the  king  on  the  right  and  the  king  on  the 
left,  the  old  magician,  the  pope,  the  voluntary  beggar,  the 
shadow,  the  intellectually  conscientious  one,  the  sorrowful 
soothsayer,  and  the  ass;  the  ugliest  man,  however,  had 
set  a  crown  on  his  head,  and  had  put  round  him  two 
purple  girdles, — for  he  liked,  like  all  ugly  ones,  to  dis- 
guise himself  and  play  the  handsome  person.  In  the  midst, 
however,  of  that  sorrowful  company  stood  Zarathustra's 
eagle,  ruffled  and  disquieted,  for  it  had  been  called  upon 
to  answer  too  much  for  which  its  pride  had  not  any  answer; 
the  wise  serpent  however  hung  round  its  neck. 

All  this  did  Zarathustra  behold  with  great  astonishment; 


1.      T.nwPver  he  scrutinised   each  individual  guest  with 
^'rt^ufcu^i^^^^^  their  souls  and  wondered  anew, 

r  ir^aSe  th^  assembled  ones  had  risen  from  their 
L\tf  aÄSd  with  reverence  for  Zarathustra  to  speak. 

^'■t Cpaw:!"™  J^'ve'^sSn^e  ones,    So  1.  was  y^ 

of  HiSess  that  I  heard?     And  now  do  I  know  also 
Sere  he TJo  be'  sought,  whom  I  have  sought  for  m 

'^Äe  oVS"  sX^he,  4e  Wgte  „ml     But 

""^nt  it  seemeth  to  me  that  ye  are  badly  adapted  for 

^'ASne'wh?  wTmake  you  laugh  once  more,  a  good 
jov"i^bufftn,  T  dancer,  a'^wind,  a  wild  romp,  some  old 

'IS^fmf  how'evL,  ye  despairing  ones,  for  speaMn^ 
sudi  Swial  words  before  you,  unworthy,  verily  of  su^ 
^Sts  1     But  ye  do  not  divine  what  maketh  my  heart 

"^'Vourselves  do  it,  and  your  asp-t,  for^e^^^^^^^^ 
For  eveiT  one  becometh  courageous  who  behoWe^  a  de 
spairS;rone.    To  encourage  a  despairing  one-every  one 
thinketh  himself  strong  enough  todo  so. 

To  myself  have  y«  g^/^i^^^^^S^Ä  "^JJell,  do 
honourable  guests  I  ^  An^^f^"*  „^f;„,,  something  of  mine. 

placel  ,   ,,       Qjje  despair:  in  my 

At  house  and  home  with  me  snau  no  ouc       f 

^^IS:S^^^A.    Ana 
*I5%rCt  SSf-rS  SeTÄ^O  V  yea, 


28o  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 

and  the  heart  with  iti     Welcome  here,  welcome  to  vou 
my  guests!"  «-"  yw, 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra,  and  laughed  with  love  and 
mischief.  After  this  greeting  his  guests  bowed  once  more 
and  were  reverentially  silent;  the  king  on  the  right  how- 
ever, answered  him  in  their  name.  ' 

"O  Zarathustra,  by  the  way  in  which  thou  hast  given  us 
thy  hand  and  thy  greeting,  we  recognise  thee  as  Zarathustra. 
Thou  hast  humbled  thyself  before  us ;  almost  hast  thou  hurt 
our  reverence — : 

—Who  however  could  have  humbled  himself  as  thou 
hast  done,  with  such  pride?  That  uplifteth  us  ourselves; 
a  refreshment  is  it,  to  our  eyes  and  hearts. 

To  behold  this,  merely,  gladly  would  we  ascend  higher 
mountains  than  this.  For  as  eager  beholders  have  we  come* 
we  wanted  to  see  what  brighteneth  dim  eyes.  * 

And  lo!  now  is  it  all  over  with  our  cries  of  distress. 
Now  are  our  minds  and  hearts  open  and  enraptured.  Little 
is  lacking  for  our  spirits  to  become  wanton. 

There  is  nothing,  O  Zarathustra,  that  groweth  more 
pleasingly  on  earth  than  a  lofty,  strong  will:  it  is  the  finest 
growth.  An  entire  landscape  refresheth  itself  at  one  such 
tree. 

To  the  pine  do  I  compare  him,  O  Zarathustra,  which 
groweth  up  like  thee— tall,  silent,  hardy,  solitary,  of  the 
best,  supplest  wood,  stately, — 

^ — In  the  end,  however,  grasping  out  for  its  dominion 
with  strong,  green  branches,  asking  weighty  questions  of 
the  wind,  the  storm,  and  whatever  is  at  home  on  high 
places; 

— ^Answering  more  weightily,  a  commander,  a  victor! 
Oh!  who  should  not  ascend  high  mountains  to  behold  such 
growths? 

At  thy  tree,  O  Zarathustra,  the  gloomy  and  ill-constituted 
also  refresh  themselves;  at  thy  look  even  the  wavering 
become  steady  and  heal  their  hearts. 

And  verily,  towards  thy  mountain  and  thy  tree  do  many 
eyes  turn  to-day;  a  great  longing  hath  arisen,  and  many 
have  learned  to  ask:  'Who  is  Zarathustra?' 

And  those  into  whose  ears  thou  hast  at  any  time  dripped 


t 


LXXI— THE  GREETING 


281 


thy  song  and  thy  honey:  all  the  hidden  ones,  the  lone- 
dwellers  and  the  twain-dwellers,  have  simultaneously  said  to 

their  hearts:  ^     .  1  *i, 

'Doth  Zarathustra  still  live?  It  is  no  longer  worth 
while  to  live,  everything  is  indifferent,  everything  is  use- 
less: or  else— we  must  live  with  Zarathustra!' 

Why  doth  he  not  come  who  hath  so  long  announced 
himself?'  thus  do  many  people  ask;  'hath  solitude  swal- 
lowed him  up?    Or  should  we  perhaps  go  to  him?' 

Now  doth  it  come  to  pass  that  solitude  itself  becometh 
fragile  and  breaketh  open,  like  a  grave  that  breaketh  open 
and  can  no  longer  hold  its  dead.     Everywhere  one  seeth 

resurrected  ones.  . 

Now  do  the  waves  rise  and  rise  around  thy  mountain, 
0  Zarathustra.  And  however  high  be  thy  height,  many 
of  them  must  rise  up  to  thee:  thy  boat  shall  not  rest 
much  longer  on  dry  ground.  . 

And  that  we  despairing  ones  have  now  come  into  tüy 
cave,  and  already  no  longer  despair:— it  is  but  a  prog- 
nostic and  a  presage  that  better  ones  are  on  the  way 

to  thee, —  ,  xi.       4.U    1  *,f 

—For  they  themselves  are  on  the  way  to  thee,  the  last 

remnant  of  God  among  men— that  is  to  say,  all  the  men 

of  great  longing,  of  great  loathing,  of  great  satiety, 

—All  who  do  not  want  to  live  unless  they  learn  again 

to  hope— unless  they  learn  from  thee,  O  Zarathustra,  the 

^^ThusTpake  the  king  on  the  right,  and  seized  the  hand 
of  Zarathustra  in  order  to  kiss  it;  but  Zarathustra  checked 
his  veneration,  and  stepped  back  frightened,  fleeing  as  it 
were,  silently  and  suddenly  into  the  far  distance.  After 
a  little  while,  however,  he  was  again  at  home  with  his 
guests,  looked  at  them  with  clear  scrutinising  eyes,  and 

said  * 

"Mv  guests,  ye  higher  men,  I  will  speak  plain  language 
and  plainly  with  you.    It  is  not  for  you  that  I  have  waited 

here  in  these  mountains."  ,  ^   ,,„     -j  u„,»  »Vo. 

(«  Tlain  language  and  plainly?'  Good  God! "  said  here  the 
king  on  the  left  to  himself;  «one  seeth  he  doth  not  know 
the  good  Occidentals,  this  sage  out  of  the  Orient! 


■'■f 


282 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 


LXXII— THE  SUPPER 


283 


But  he  meaneth  'blunt  language  and  bluntly'— well  1 
That  is  not  the  worst  taste  in  these  daysl") 

"Ye  may,  verily,  all  of  you  be  higher  men,"  continued 
Zarathustra;  "but  for  me— ye  are  neither;  high  enough,  nor 

strong  enough. 

For  me,  that  is  to  say,  for  the  mexorable  which  is  now 
silent  in  me,  but  will  not  always  be  silent.  And  if  ye 
appertain  to  me,  still  it  is  not  as  my  right  arm. 

For  he  who  himself  standeth,  like  you,  on  sickly  and 
tender  legs,  wisheth  above  all  to  be  treated  indulgently, 
whether  he  be  conscious  of  it  or  hide  it  from  himself. 

My  arms  and  my  legs,  however,  I  do  not  treat  indulgently, 
/  do  not  treat  my  warriors  indulgently:  how  then  could  ye 
be  fit  for  my  warfare? 

With  you  I  should  spoil  all  my  victories.  And  many 
of  you  would  tumble  over  if  ye  but  heard  the  loud  beating 

of  my  drums. 

Moreover,  ye  are  not  sufficiently  beautiful  and  well-born 
for  me.  I  require  pure,  smooth  mirrors  for  my  doctrines; 
on  your  surface  even  mine  own  likeness  is  distorted. 

On  your  shoulders  presseth  many  a  burden,  many  a 
recollection;  many  a  mischievous  dwarf  squatteth  in  your 
corners.    There  is  concealed  populace  also  in  you.  ^ 

And  though  ye  be  high  and  of  a  higher  type,  much  m 
you  is  crooked  and  misshapen.  There  is  no  smith  in  the 
world  that  could  hammer  you  right  and  straight  for  me. 

Ye  are  only  bridges:  may  higher  ones  pass  over  upon 
you!  Ye  signify  steps:  so  do  not  upbraid  him  who  ascend- 
eth  beyond  you  into  his  height! 

Out  of  your  seed  there  may  one  day  arise  for  me  a 
genuine  son  and  perfect  heir:  but  that  time  is  distant.  Ye 
yourselves  are  not  those  unto  whom  my  heritage  and  name 

belong.  .  - 

Not  for  you  do  I  wait  here  in  these  mountains;  not  witn 
you  may  I  descend  for  the  last  time.  Ye  have  come  unto 
me  only  as  a  presage  that  higher  ones  are  on  the  way 

to  me  —  * 

— Not  the  men  of  great  longing,  of  great  loathing,  of 

great  satiety,  and  that  which  ye  call  the  remnant  of  God; 

Nay!     Nay!     Three  times  Nay!     For  others  do  I 


wait  here  in  these  mountains,  and  will  not  lift  my  foot  from 

thence  without  them;  .        ,      ^ 

—For  higher  ones,  stronger  ones,  tnumphanter  ones, 
merrier  ones,  for  such  as  are  built  squarely  in  body  and 

soul:  laughing  lions  must  come!  ,  ,       j  „„,1, 

0  my  guests,  ye  strange  ones— have  ye  yet  heard  noth- 
ing of  my  children?    And  that  they  are  on-  the  way  to  me? 

Do  speak  unto  me  of  my  gardens,  of  my  Happy  Isles,  ot 
my  new  beautiful  race— why  do  ye  not  speak  unto  me 

^  This  guests'-present  do  I  solicit  of  your  love,  that  ye  speak 
unto  me  of  my  children.  For  them  am  I  rich,  for  them 
I  became  poor:  what  have  I  not  surrendered. 

What  would  I  not  surrender  that  I  might  have  one  thmg: 
these  children,  this  living  plantation,  these  life-trees  of  my 
wii:  and  of  my  highest  hope!" 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra,  and  stopped  suddenly  in  his 
discourse:  for  his  longing  came  over  him,  and  he  clos^ 
his  eyes  and  his  mouth,  because  of  the  agitation ,  of  his 
heart.  And  all  his  guests  also  were  silent,  and  stood  still 
and  confounded:  except  only  that  the  old  soothsayer  made 
signs  with  his  hands  and  his  gestures. 

LXXII.— THE  SUPPER 

For  at  this  point  the  soothsayer  interrupt«!  the  greet- 
ing of  Zarathustra  and  his  guests:  he  pressed  forward  85 
one  who  had  no  time  to  lose,  seized  Zarathustra  s  hand 
and  exclaimed:  "But  Zarathustra! 

One  thing  is  more  necessary  than  the  other,  so  sayest 
thou  thyself:  well,  one  thing  is  now  more  necessary  unto  me 

than  all  others.  ^. ,      ,  ^  .     ..^  ^.  ^^ 

A  word  at  the  right  time:  didst  thou  not  invite  me  to 
table?  And  here  are  many  who  have  made  long  journeys. 
Thou  dost  not  mean  to  feed  us  merely  with  discourses? 

Besides  all  of  you  have  thought  too  much  about  freez- 
ing, drowning,  suffocating,  and  other  bodily  dangers:  ncme 
of  you,  however,  have  thought  of  my  danger,  namely,  per- 
ishing of  hunger — " 


:&'  ■* 


:;*  ! 


LXXIII— THE  HIGHER  MAN 


285 


284 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 


(Thus  spake  the  soothsayer.  When  Zarathustra's  ani- 
mals, however,  heard  these  words,  they  ran  away  in  terror. 
For  they  saw  that  all  they  had  brought  home  during  the 
day  would  not  be  enough  to  fill  the  one  soothsayer.) 

"Likewise  perishing  of  thirst,"  continued  the  soothsayer. 
"And  although  I  hear  water  splashing  here  like  words  of 
wisdom— that  is. to  say,  plenteously  and  unweariedly,  I— 

want  winet  ,.,     rr       i. 

Not  every  one  is  a  born  water-dnnker  like  Zarathustra. 

Neither  doth  water  suit  weary  and  withered  ones:  we  de- 
serve wine — it  alone  giveth  immediate  vigour  and  impro- 
vised health!"  . 

On  this  occasion,  when  the  soothsayer  was  longing  for 
wine,  it  happened  that  the  king  on  the  left,  the  silent  one, 
also  found  expression  for  once.  'We  took  care,"  said  he, 
"about  wine,  I,  along  with  my  brother  the  king  on  the 
right:  we  have  enough  of  wine, — a  whole  ass-load  of  it.  So 
there  is  nothing  lacking  but  bread." 

"Bread,"  replied  Zarathustra,  laughing  when  he  spake, 
"it  is  precisely  bread  that  anchorites  have  not.  But  man 
doth  not  live  by  bread  alone,  but  also  by  the  flesh  of  good 
lambs,  of  which  I  have  two:  ,        ,        •  m 

—These  shall  we  slaughter  quickly,  and  cook  spicily 
with  sage:  it  is  so  that  I  like  them.  And  there  is  also  no 
lack  of  roots  and  fruits,  good  enough  even  for  the  fastidi- 
ous and  dainty,— nor  of  nuts  and  other  riddles  for  cracking. 

Thus  will  we  have  a  good  repast  in  a  little  while.  But 
whoever  wish  to  eat  with  us  must  also  give  a  hand  to 
the  work,  even  the  kings.     For  with  Zarathustra  even  a 

king  may  be  a  cook."  r    1,    r  .i. 

This  proposal  appealed  to  the  hearts  of  all  of  them,  save 
that  the  voluntary  beggar  objected  to  the  flesh  and  wine  and 

spices. 

"Just  hear  this  glutton  Zarathustra!"  said  he  jokingly: 
"doth  one  go  into  caves  and  high  mountains  to  make  such 

repasts?  ,       ,  v^    ,. 

Now  indeed  do  I  understand  what  he  once  taught  us. 
'Blessed  be  moderate  poverty!'  And  why  he  wisheth  to  do 
away  with  beggars." 

"Be  of  good  cheer,"  replied  Zarathustra,  "as  I  am.   Abide 


bv  thy  customs,  thou  excellent  one:  grind  Ay  com,  dnnk 
Sv  water,  praise  thy -cooking,— if  only  it  make  thee  glad! 

I  am  a  law  only  for  mine  own;  I  am  not  a  law  for  all. 
He,  however,  who  belongeth  unto  me  must  be  strong  of  bone 

and  light  of  foot, —  ,  ,       ,  _ 

_Toyous  in  fight  and  feast,  no  sulker,  no  John  o'  Dreams, 
ready  for  the  hardest  task  as  for  the  feast,  healthy  and  hale 

The  best  belongeth  unto  mine  and  me;  and  if  it  be  not 
given  us,  then  do  we  take  it:— the  best  food  the  purest 
sky,  the  strongest  thoughts,  the  fairest  women!  — 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra;  the  king  on  the  right  however 
answered  and  said:  "Strange!  Did  one  ever  hear  such 
sensible  things  out  of  the  mouth  of  a  wise  man? 

And  verily,  it  is  the  strangest  thing  m  a  wise  man,  if 
over  and  above,  he  be  still  sensible,  and  not  an  ass. 

Thus  spake  the  king  on  the  right  and  wondered;  üie 
ass  however,  with  ill-will,  said  Ye-a  to  his  remark  This 
however  was  the  beginning  of  that  long  repast  which  is 
called  "The  Supper"  in  the  history-books.  At  this  there 
was  nothing  else  spoken  of  but  the  higher  man. 

LXXIII.— THE  HIGHER  MAN 

X. 

When  I  came  unto  men  for  the  first  time,  then  did  I 
commit  the  anchorite  folly,  the  great  folly:  I  appeared  on 

the  market-place.  „   ,       i         * „«»     in  the 

And  when  I  spake  unto  all,  I  spake  unto  none.    In  tje 

evening,  however,  rope-dancers  were  my  companions,  and 

corpses;  and  I  myself  almost  a  corpse. 
With  the  new  morning,  however,  there  canie  unto  me 

a  new  truth:  then  did  I  learn  to  say:  "«^  ^^f^^^Jf  «H«* 

to  me  are  market-place  and  populace  and  populace-noise 

nSghAnTa-'i^^^  from  me:  On  the  -rket-^-e 
no  one  believeth  in  higher  men.  But  if  ye  wi U  speak  ^er^J 
very  well!    The  populace,  however,  blinketh:    We  are  all 

equal." 


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THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 


LXXIII— THE  HIGHER  MAN 


287 


"Ye  higher  men/^ — so  blinketh  the  populace — ^^'there  are 
no  higher  men,  we  are  all  equal ;  man  is  man,  before  God— 
we  are  all  equal  1" 

Before  God  I — Now,  however,  this  God  hath  died.  Be- 
fore the  populace,  however,  we  will  not  be  equal»  Y^ 
higher  men,  away  from  the  market-place  I 

2. 

Before  God  I — Now  however  this  God  hath  died!  Ye 
higher  men,  this  God  was  your  greatest  danger. 

Only  since  he  lay  in  the  grave  have  ye  again  arisen. 
Now  only  cometh  the  great  noontide,  now  only  doth  the 
higher  man  become — master! 

Have  ye  understood  this  word,  O  my  brethren?  Ye  are 
frightened:  do  your  hearts  turn  giddy?  Doth  the  abyss 
here  yawn  for  you?    Doth  the  hell-hound  here  yelp  at  you? 

Well!  Take  heart!  ye  higher  men!  Now  only  travaileth 
the  mountain  of  the  human  future.  God  hath  died:  now 
do  we  desire — the  Superman  to  live. 


The  most  careful  ask  to-day:  "How  is  man  to  be  main- 
tained?" Zarathustra  however  asketh,  as  the  first  and  only 
one:  "How  is  man  to  be  surpassed?'' 

The  Superman,  I  have  at  heart;  that  is  the  first  and 
only  thing  to  me — and  not  man:  not  the  neighbour,  not 
the  poorest,  not  the  sorriest,  not  the  best. — 

O  my  brethren,  what  I  can  love  in  man  is  that  he  is  an 
over-going  and  a  down-going.  And  also  in  you  there  is 
much  that  maketh  me  love  and  hope. 

In  that  ye  have  despised,  ye  higher  men,  that  maketh 
me  hope.    For  the  great  despisers  are  the  great  reverers. 

In  that  ye  have  despaired,  there  is  much  to  honour. 
For  ye  have  not  learned  to  submit  yourselves,  ye  have  not 
learned  petty  policy. 

For  to-day  have  the  petty  people  become  master:  they 
all  preach  submission  and  humility  and  policy  and  diligence 
and  consideration  and  the  long  et  cetera  of  petty  virtues. 


Whatever  is  of  the  effeminate  type,  whatever  ongmateth 
from  the  servile  type,  and  especially  the  populace-mißh- 
m^sh'— that  wisheth  now  to  be  master  of  all  human  des- 
tiny-lo  disgust!     Disgust!     Disgust!  . 

That  asketh  and  asketh  and  never  tireth:  "How  is  man 
to    maintain    himself    best,    longest,    most    pleasantly? 
Thereby— are  they  the  masters  of  to-day. 

These  masters  of  to-day— surpass  them,  O  my  brethren— 
these   petty   people:    they   are   the   Superman  s   greatest 

"^^umass,  ye  higher  men,  the  petty  virtues  the  petty 
Dolicv  the  sand-grain  considerateness,  the  ant-hill  trumpery, 
ES^tiab^  the  "happiness  of  the  great- 

^^  And"l-athe7despair  than  submit  yourselves.  And  verily, 
I  love  you,  because  ye  know  not  to-day  how  to  live,  ye 
higher  men!     For  thus  do  ye  live— best! 

4- 

Have  ve  courage,  O  my  brethren?  Are  ye  stout-hearted? 
Not  the  courage  before  witnesses,  but  ^^^^If^te  and  eagle 
courage,  which  not  even  a  God  any  longer  beiiolde*? 

Cold  souls,  mules,  the  blind  and  the  drunken  I  do  not 
call  stout-hearted.  He  hath  heart  who  knoweth  fear,  but 
vanquisheth  it;  who  seeth  the  abyss,  b}jt  ^th  Jnde^^^^ 

He    who   seeth    the    abyss,    but   with   eagles    eyes 
he  who  with  eagle's  talons  graspeth  the  abyss:  he  hath 

courage. 

5. 

"Man  is  evil"— so  said  to  me  for  consolation,  all  the  wisest 
ones  Ui,Tf  only  it  be  still  true  to-day!     For  the  evil  is 

man's  best  force.  ,     ,  .     v 

"Man  must  become  better  and  eviler"— so  do  /  teach. 

The  evUest  is  necessary  for  the  Superman  s  best. 

It  may  have  been  well  for  the  preacher  of  the  petty  peopte 
to  suffer  and  be  burdened  by  men's  sin.    I,  however,  re- 

joice  in  great  sin  as  my  great  consdatton-- 
Such  tilings,  however,  are  not  said  for  long  ears.    Every 


/ 


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THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 


LXXIII— THE  HIGHER  MAN 


289 


word,  also,  is  not  suited  for  every  mouth.    These  are  fine, 
far-away  things:  at  them  sheep's  claws  shall  not  grasp! 

6. 

Ye  higher  men,  think  ye  that  I  am  here  to  put  right 
what  ye  have  put  wrong? 

Or  that  I  wished  henceforth  to  make  snugger  couches  for 
you  sufferers?  Or  show  you  restless,  mis  wandering,  mis- 
climbing  ones,  new  and  easier  footpaths? 

Nay!  Nay!  Three  times  Nay!  Always  more,  always 
better  ones  of  your  type  shall  succumb, — for  ye  shall  al- 
ways have  it  worse  and  harder.    Thus  only — 

— ^Thus  only  groweth  man  aloft  to  the  height  where 
the  lightning  striketh  and  shattereth  him:  high  enough  for 
the  lightning! 

Towards  the  few,  the  long,  the  remote  go  forth  my  soul 
and  my  seeking:  of  what  account  to  me  are  your  many 
little,  short  miseries! 

Ye  do  not  yet  suffer  enough  for  me!  For  ye  suffer  from 
yourselves,  ye  have  not  yet  suffered  from  man.  Ye  would 
lie  if  ye  spake  otherwise!  None  of  you  suffereth  from 
what  /  have  suffered. 


It  is  not  enough  for  me  that  the  lightning  no  longer 
doeth  harm.  I  do  not  wish  to  conduct  it  away:  it  shall 
learn — to  work  for  me, — 

My  wisdom  hath  accumulated  long  like  a  cloud,  it  be- 
Cometh  stiller  and  darker.  So  doeth  all  wisdom  which 
shall  one  day  bear  lightnings, — 

Unto  these  men  of  to-day  will  I  not  be  light,  nor  be 
called  light.  Them — will  I  blind:  lightning  of  my  wis- 
dom! put  out  their  eyesl 

8. 

Do  not  will  anything  beyond  your  power:  there  is  a 
bad  falseness  in  those  who  will  beyond  their  power. 

Especially  when  they  will  great  things !    For  they  awaken 


distrust  in  great   things,   these  subtle   false-coiners  and 

stage-players: — 

—Until  at  last  they  are  false  towards  themselves,  squmt- 
eyed,  whited  cankers,  glossed  over  with  strong  words,  parade 
virtues  and  brilliant  false  deeds. 

Take  good  care  there,  ye  higher  men!  For  nothing  is 
more  precious  to  me,  and  rarer,  than  honesty. 

Is  this  to-day  not  that  of  the  populace?  The  populace 
however  knoweth  not  what  is  great  and  what  is  small, 
what  is  straight  and  what  is  honest:  it  is  innocently  crooked, 
it  ever  lieth. 

9- 

Have  a  good  distrust  to-day,  ye  higher  men,  ye  en- 
heartened  ones!  Ye  open-hearted  ones!  And  keep  your 
reasons  secret!     For  this  to-day  is  that  of  the  populace. 

What  the  populace  once  learned  to  believe  without  rea- 
sons, who  could— refute  it  to  them  by  means  of  reasons? 

And  on  the  market-place  one  convinceth  with  gestures. 
But  reasons  make  the  populace  distrustful. 

And  when  truth  hath  once  triumphed  there,  then  ask 
yourselves  with  good  distrust:   "What  strong  error  hath 

fought  for  it?"  ^,     ^^      ^  ^ 

Be  on  your  guard  also  against  the  learned!     They  hate 

you,  because   they   are  unproductive!      They  have  cold, 

withered  eyes  before  which  every  bird  is  unplumed. 
Such  persons  vaunt  about  not  lying:   but  inability  to 

lie  is  still  far  from  being  love  to  truth.    Be  on  your  guard 
Freedom  from  fever  is  still  far  from  being  knowledge! 

Refrigerated  spirits  I  do  not  believe  in.    He  who  cannot 

lie,  doth  not  know  what  truth  is. 

10. 

If  ye  would  go  up  high,  then  use  your  own  legs!  Do 
not  get  yourselves  carried  aloft;  do  not  seat  yourselves 
on  other  people's  backs  and  heads! 

Thou  hast  mounted,  however,  on  horseback?  Thou  now 
ridest  briskly  up  to  thy  goal?  Well,  my  fnendl  But  thy 
lame  foot  is  also  with  thee  on  horseback! 


2go 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 


LXXIII— THE  HIGHER  MAN 


291 


When  thou  readiest  thy  goal,  when  thou  alightest  from 
thy  horse:  precisely  on  thy  height,  thou  higher  man, — then 
wilt  thou  stumble! 

II. 

Ye  creating  ones,  ye  higher  men!  One  is  only  pregnant 
with  one's  own  child. 

Do  not  let  yourselves  be  imposed  upon  or  put  upon! 
Who  then  is  your  neighbour?  Even  if  ye  act  "for  your 
neighbour" — ^ye  still  do  not  create  for  him! 

Unlearn,  I  pray  you,  this  "for,"  ye  creating  ones:  your 
very  virtue  wisheth  you  to  have  naught  to  do  with  "for'* 
and  "on  account  of"  and  "because."  Against  these  false 
little  words  shall  ye  stop  your  ears. 

"For  one's  neighbour,"  is  the  virtue  only  of  the  petty 
people:  there  it  is  said  "like  and  like,"  and  "hand  washeth 
hand": — they  have  neither  the  right  nor  the  power  for 
your  self-seeking! 

In  your  self-seeking,  ye  creating  ones,  there  is  the  fore- 
sight and  foreseeing  of  the  pregnant!  What  no  one's  eye 
hath  yet  seen,  namely,  the  fruit— this,  sheltereth  and  saveth 
and  nourisheth  your  entire  love. 

Where  your  entire  love  is,  namely,  with  your  child,  there 
is  also  your  entire  virtue!  Your  work,  your  will  is  your 
"neighbour":  let  no  false  values  impose  upon  you! 


12. 

Ye  creating  ones,  ye  higher  men!  Whoever  hath  to  give 
birth  is  sick;  whoever  hath  given  birth,  however,  is  un- 
clean. 

Ask  women:  one  giveth  birth,  not  because  it  giveth 
pleasure.    The  pain  maketh  hens  and  poets  cackle. 

Ye  creating  ones,  in  you  there  is  much  uncleanness.  That 
is  because  ye  have  had  to  be  mothers. 

A  new  child:  oh,  how  much  new  filth  hath  also  come 
into  the  world!  Go  apart!  He  who  hath  given  birth 
shall  wash  his  soul! 


13- 


Be  not  virtuous  beyond  your  powers!  And  seek  nothmg 
from  yourselves  opposed  to  probability!    ^     ,    ^      u^^u 

Walk  in  the  footsteps  in  which  your  fathers'  virtue  hath 
already  walked!     How  would  ye  rise  high,  if  your  fathers 

will  should  not  rise  with  you?  , 

k  however,  who  would  be  a  firstling,  let  him  take  care 

lest  he  also  become  a  lastling!     And  where  the  vices  of 

your  fathers  are,  there  should  ye  not  set  up  as  saints! 
He  whose  fathers  were  inclined  for  women,  and  for  strong 

wine  and  flesh  of  wildboar  swine;  what  would  it  be  if  He 

demanded  chastity  of  himself? 
A  folly  would  it  be!     Much,  venly,  doth  it  seem  to  me 

for  such  a  one,  if  he  should  be  the  husband  of  one  or  of 

two  or  of  three  women.  .       .,    ,  .v  -^ 

And  if  he  founded  monasteries,  and  inscribed  over  their 

po^ls:  "The  way  to  holiness,"-!  should  still  say:  What 

good  is  it!  it  is  a  new  folly!  ,  ,     «    ^ 

He  hath  founded  for  himself  a  penance-house  and  refuge- 
house:  much  good  may  it  do!    But  I  do  notbelieve  in  it 

In  solitude  there  groweth  what  any  one  bringeth  into  it— 
also  üie  bru?e  in  onl's  nature.    Thus  is  solitude  inadvisable 

"""SatTXre  ever  been  anything  filthier  on  earth  than 
the  saints  of  the  wilderness?  Around  them  was  not  only 
the  devil  loose— but  also  the  swine. 

14. 

Shy,  ashamed,  awkward,  like  the  «ger  whose  spring  hath 
failed-thus,  ye  higher  men,  have  I  often  seen  you  slmk 
aside.    A  cast  which  ye  made  had  failed. 

But  what  doth  it  matter,  ye  dice-players!  Ye  had  not 
learned  to  play  and  mock,  as  one  must  play  Mid  mock! 
Do  we  no?  eVsit  at  a  great  table  of  mocking  and  pjaying? 

And  if  ereat  things  have  been  a  failure  with  you,  have  ye 

yo^Äherefor^-been  a  failure?    And  if  ye  youxsdves 

.  Lve  been  a  failure,  hath  man  therefore-been  a  failure? 


292 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 


LXXm— THE  HIGHER  MAN 


293 


If  man,  however,  hath  been  a  failure:  well  then!  never 
mind  I 

IS. 

The  higher  its  type,  always  the  seldomer  doth  a  thing 
succeed.  Ye  higher  men  here,  have  ye  not  all — been  fail- 
ures? 

Be  of  good  cheer;  what  doth  it  matter?  How  much  is 
still  possible!  Learn  to  laugh  at  yourselves,  as  ye  ought 
to  laugh! 

What  wonder  even  that  ye  have  failed  and  only  half- 
succeeded,  ye  half-shattered  ones!  Doth  not — man's  future 
strive  and  struggle  in  you? 

Man's  furthest,  profoundest,  star-highest  issues,  his  pro- 
digious powers — do  not  all  these  foam  through  one  another 
in  your  vessel? 

What  wonder  that  many  a  vessel  shattereth!  Learn  to 
laugh  at  yourselves,  as  ye  ought  to  laugh!  Ye  higher  men. 
Oh,  how  much  is  still  possible! 

And  verily,  how  much  hath  already  succeeded !  How  rich 
is  tills  earth  in  small,  good,  perfect  things,  in  well-consti- 
tuted things! 

Set  around  you  small,  good,  perfect  things,  ye  higher  men. 
Their  golden  maturity  healeth  the  heart.  The  perfect 
teacheth  one  to  hope. 

16. 

What  hath  hitherto  been  the  greatest  sin  here  on  earth? 
Was  it  not  the  word  of  him  who  said:  "Woe  unto  them 
that  laugh  now!" 

Did  he  himself  find  no  cause  for  laughter  on  the  earth? 
Then  he  sought  badly.    A  child  even  findeth  cause  for  it. 

He — did  not  love  sufficientiy:  otherwise  would  he  also 
have  loved  us,  the  laughing  ones!  But  he  hated  and  hooted 
us;  wailing  and  teeth-gnashing  did  he  promise  us.» 

Must  one  then  curse  immediately,  when  one  doth  not 
love?  That — seemeth  to  me  bad  taste.  Thus  did  he,  how- 
ever, this  absolute  one.    He  sprang  from  the  populace. 


And  he  himself  just  did  not  love  suffiaenüy;  oAenwse 
wo\dd  he  have  raged  less  because  people  did  not  love  him. 
AU  CT^t  love  doth  not  seek  love:-it  seeketh  more^  , 

Go?ut  of  the  way  of  all  such  absolute  ones!  They  are 
a  pS,r  sickly  type,  a  populace-type:  they  l^k  at  this  life 
wiA  ill-will,  they  have  an  evil  eye  for  this  earth. 

Go  ouTo  the  way  of  all  such  absolute  ones  They  have 
heS^^t  and  sultry  hearts:-they  do  not  know  how  to 
daS.    How  could  the  earth  be  light  to  such  onesl 

17- 

Tortuously  do  all  good  things  come  nigh  to  their  goal. 
Like  SthV  curve  their  backs,  they  purr  inwardly  with 
Adr  SproSng  happiness, -all  good  things  laugh 

His  Sobetrayeth  whether  a  person  already  walketh  on 
AifoÄhf  jit  -e  me  walk!    He,  however,  who  cometh 

"^t^vära  stÄave  I  not  become  not  yet  do  I 
staM  there  stiff ,  stupid  and  stony,  like  a  pillar;  I  love  fast 

'^  aS  though  there  be  on  earth  fens  and  dense  afflictions 
he  who  hath  light  feet  runneth  even  across  the  mud,  and 

danceth,  as  upon  well-swept  ice.  T,5„hpr!    And  do 

Lift  UD  vour  hearts,  my  brethren,  high,  higherl  ^na  ao 
not  forget  your  legs!  Lift  up  also  your  legs  ye  good  danc- 
ers, Ätter  still,  if  ye  stand  upon  your  heads! 

18. 
Th,\  rrown  of  the  laughter,  this  rose-garland  crown:  I 

unto  all  birds,  ready  and  prepared,  a  blissfully  ligni  spir 
"""zaTathustra  the  soothsayer,  Zarathustra  the  sooth-laugher. 


I' 


294 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 


no  impatient  one,  no  absolute  one,  one  who  loveth  leaps 
and  side-leaps;  I  myself  have  put  on  this  crown  1 


19. 

Lift  up  your  hearts,  my  brethren,  high,  higher!  And  do 
not  forget  your  legs!  Lift  up  also  your  legs,  ye  good  danc- 
ers, and  better  still  if  ye  stand  upjon  your  heads! 

There  are  also  heavy  animals  in  a  state  of  happiness, 
there  are  club-footed  ones  from  the  beginning.  Curiously 
do  they  exert  themselves,  like  an  elephant  whidi  endeavour- 
eth  to  stand  upon  its  head. 

Better,  however,  to  be  foolish  with  happiness  than  foolish 
with  misfortune,  better  to  dance  awkwardly  than  walk 
lamely.  So  learn,  I  pray  you,  my  wisdom,  ye  higher  men: 
even  the  worst  thing  hath  two  good  reverse  sides, — 

— Even  the  worst  thing  hath  good  dancing-legs:  so  learn, 
I  pray  you,  ye  higher  men,  to  put  yourselves  on  your  proper 

legs! 

So  unlearn,  I  pray  you,  the  sorrow-sighing,  and  all  the 
populace-sadness!  Oh,  how  sad  the  buffoons  of  the  popu- 
lace seem  to  me  to-day!  This  to-day,  however,  is  that  of 
the  populace. 

20. 

Do  like  unto  the  wind  when  it  rusheth  forth  from  its 
mountain-caves:  unto  its  own  piping  Will  it  dance;  the  seas 
tremble  and  leap  under  its  footsteps. 

That  which  giveth  wings  to  asses,  that  which  milketh  the 
lionesses: — upraised  be  that  good,  unruly  spirit,  which  Com- 
eth like  a  hurricane  unto  all  the  present  and  unto  all  the 
populace, — 

— Which  is  hostile  to  thistle-heads  and  puzzle-heads,  and 
to  all  withered  leaves  and  weeds: — praised  be  this  wild, 
good,  free  spirit  of  the  storm,  which  danceth  upon  fens  and 
afflictions,  as  upon  meadows! 

Which  hateth  the  consumptive  populace-dogs,  and  all  the 
ill-constituted,  sullen  brood: — praised  be  this  spirit  of  all 


LXXIV— THE  SONG  OF  MELANCHOLY       295 

free  spirits,  the  laughing  storm,  which  bloweth  dust  into  the 
eves  of  all  the  melanopic  and  melancholic!  , 

^?e  higher  men,  the  worst  thing  in  you  is  that  ye  have 
none  of  you  learned  to  dance  as  ye  ought  to  dance-to  dance 
EeyLd  yourseW^^      What  doth  it  matter  that  ye  have 

^^'h^w  many  things  are  still  possible!  So  learn  to  laugh 
beyond  yourLves!  Lift  up  your  hearts,  ye  good  dancers, 
hSi!  higher!     And  do  not  forget  the  good  laughter! 

This  crown  of  the  laugher,  this  rose-garland  crown:  to 
you  my  brethren  do  I  cast  this  crown!  Laugh^^g  ^^ave  I 
consecrated;  ye  higher  men,  learn,  I  pray  you-to  laughl 

LXXIV.— THE   SONG   OF   MELANCHOLY 

I. 

When  Zarathustra  spake  these  sayings,  he  stood  nigh  to 

Slipped  away  from  his  guests,  and  fled  for  a  httle  wHiie 

into  the  open  air.  ^,  ^^     ^  stillness 

"O  pure  odours  around  me,    criea  ne,    yj  "^  ,  .^ 

around  me!    But  where  are  mine  animals?    Hither,  hither, 

mine  eagle  and  my  serpent!  them— 

Tell  me  mine  animals:  these  higher  men,  ail  oi  tnem 

do  theyTerSps  not  smell  well?    O  pure  odours  ajound  me! 

Now  7nly  do  I  know  and  feel  how  I  love  YOJ,  ™ne  a^^^^^^ 
-And  Zarathustra  said  once  more:       I  ^^^^ J.^^^^ 

•^?ieP>     ThP  eagle    however,  and  the  serpent  pressea 
ammals!       The  eagle,  now      ^  ^^^^^^  ^^  ^^ 

close  to  him  when  he  spaRe  inebc  wu  u  ,  toeether, 

him.    In  this  attitude  were  ^^^y  all  ^^^^^^^ 

said:     "He  is  gone  I 


M^rJ'V,  iflfagjiartlili     11*  mm^  ■     . 


296  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 

And  already,  ye  higher  men— let  me  tickle  you  with  this 
complixiientary  and  flattering  name,  as  he  himself  doeth— 
already  doth  mine  evil  spirit  of  deceit  and  magic  attack  me, 
my  melancholy  devil, 

— ^Which  is  an  adversary  to  this  Zarathustra  from  the 
very  heart:  forgive  it  for  this!  Now  doth  it  wish  to  con- 
jure before  you,  it  hath  just  its  hour;  in  vain  do  I  struggle 
with  this  evil  spirit. 

Unto  all  of  you,  whatever  honours  ye  like  to  assume  in 
your  names,  whether  ye  call  yourselves  Hhe  free  spirits'  or 
*the  conscientious,'  or  'the  penitents  of  the  spirit/  or  %e 
unfettered,'  or  'the  great  longers,' — 

— Unto  all  of  you,  who  like  me  suffer  from  the  great 
loathing,  to  whom  the  old  God  hath  died,  and  as  yet  no  new 
God  lieth  in  cradles  and  swaddling  clothes — unto  all  of  you 
is  mine  evil  spirit  and  magic-devil  favourable. 

I  know  you,  ye  higher  men,  I  know  him, — I  know  also 
this  fiend  whom  I  love  in  spite  of  me,  this  Zarathustra:  he 
himself  often  seemeth  to  me  like  the  beautiful  mask  of  a 
saint, 

— ^Like  a  new  strange  mummery  in  which  mine  evil  spirit, 
the  inelancholy  devil,  delighteth: — I  love  Zarathustra,  so 
doth  it  often  seem  to  me,  for  the  sake  of  mine  evil  spirit. — 

But  already  doth  it  attack  me  and  constrain  me,  this 
spirit  of  melancholy,  this  evening-twilight  devil:  and  verily, 
ye  higher  men,  it  hath  a  longing — 

— Open  your  eyes! — it  hath  a  longing  to  come  naked, 
whether  male  or  female,  I  do  not  yet  know:  but  it  cometh, 
it  constraineth  me,  alas!  open  your  wits! 

^  The  day  dieth  out,  unto  all  things  cometh  now  the  eve- 
ning, also  unto  the  best  things ;  hear  now,  and  see,  ye  higher 
men,  what  devil — man  or  woman — this  spirit  of  evening- 
melancholy  is!" 

Thus  spake  the  old  magician,  looked  cunningly  about  him, 
and  then  seized  his  harp. 


In  evening's  limpid  air. 
What  time  the  dew's  soothings 


LXXIV— THE  SONG  OF  MELANCHOLY       297 

Unto  the  earth  downpour, 
Invisibly  and  unheard — 
For  tender  shoe-gear  wear 
The  soothing  dews,  like  all  that's  kmd-gentle— : 
Bethinkst  thou  then,  bethinkst  thou,  burning  heart, 
How  once  thou  thirstedest  ,     ,     ^         . 

For  heaven's  kindly  teardrops  and  dew's  down-drop- 
pings. 
All  singed  and  weary  thirstedest. 
What  time  on  yellow  grass-pathways 
Wicked,  occidental  sunny  glances 
Through  sombre  trees  about  thee  sported,^ 
Blindingly  sunny  glow-glances,  gladly-hurUng? 

"Of  truth  the  wooer?    Thou?"— so  taunted  they—* 

"Nay!    Merely  poet! 

A  brute  insidious,  plundering,  grovelling, 

That  aye  must  lie, 

That  wittingly,  wilfully,  aye  must  lie: 

For  booty  lusting. 

Motley  masked. 

Self-hidden,  shrouded, 

Himself  his  booty— 

ffß — of  truth  the  wooer? 

Nay!    Mere  fool!    Mere  poetl 

Just  motley  speaking,  „      ^     ,. 

From  mask  of  fool  confusedly  shouting, 

Circumambling  on  fabricated  word-bndges, 

On  motley  rainbow-arches, 

'Twixt  the  spurious  heavenly 

And  spurious  earthly, 

Round  us  roving,  round  us  soanng,-^ 

Mere  fool  1    Mere  poet  I 

He— of  truth  the  wooer? 

Not  still,  stiff,  smooth  and  cold, 

Become  an  image, 

A  godlike  statue. 

Set  up  in  front  of  temples, 

As  a  God's  own  door-guard: 

Nay!  hostile  to  all  such  truthfulness-statues, 


298  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 

In  every  desert  homelier  than  at  temples, 
With  cattish  wantonness, 
Through  every  window  leaping 
Quickly  into  chances, 
Every  wild  forest  a-sniffing, 
Greedily-longingly,  sniffing. 
That  thou,  in  wild  forests, 
'Mong  the  motley-speckled  fierce  creatures, 
Shouldest  rove,  sinful-sound  and  fine-coloured. 
With  longing  lips  smacking, 

Blessedly  mocking,  blessedly  hellish,  blessedly  blood- 
thirsty, 
Robbing,  skulking,  lying — roving: — 

Or  unto  eagles  like  which  fixedly, 
Long  adown  the  precipice  look, 

Adown  their  precipice: 

Oh,  how  they  whirl  down  now, 

Thereunder,  therein, 

To  ever  deeper  profoundness  whirling! — -. 

Then, 

Sudden, 

With  aim  aright, 

With  quivering  flight. 

On  lambkins  pouncing, 

Headlong  down,  sore-hungry, 

For  lambkins  longing. 

Fierce  'gainst  all  lamb-spirits. 

Furious-fierce  'gainst  all  that  look 

Sheeplike,  or  lambeyed,  or  crisp-woolly, 

— Grey,  with  lambsheep  kindliness  1 

Even  thus. 

Eaglelike,  pantherlike. 

Are  the  poet's  desires, 

Are  thine  own  desires  'neath  a  thousand  guises. 

Thou  fool!     Thou  poet! 

Thou  who  all  mankind  viewedst — 

So  God,  as  sheep — : 

The  God  to  rend  within  mankind. 


LXXV— SCIENCE 


299 


As  the  sheep  in  mankind. 
And  in  rending  laughing— 

That,  that  is  thine  own  blessedness! 

Of  a  panther  and  eagle— blessedness 

Of  a  poet  and  fool— the  blessedness! 

In  evening's  limpid  air, 

What  time  the  moon's  sickle. 

Green,  'twixt  the  purple- glowmgs, 

And  jealous,  steal'th  forth: 

— Of  day  the  foe, 

With  every  step  in  secret, 

The  rosy  garland-hammocks 

Downsickling,  till  they've  sunken 

Down  nightwards,  faded,  downsunken:— 

Thus  had  I  sunken  one  day  ^ 

From  mine  own  truth-insanity,  ^ 

From  mine  own  fervid  day-longings, 

Of  day  aweary,  sick  of  sunshine, 

—Sunk  downwards,  evenwards,  shadowwards: 

By  one  sole  trueness 

^bXS  ä™  SS!'Unkst  40»,  burning  heart. 
How  then  thou  thirstedest?— 
That  I  shotdd  banned  be 
Front  all  the  trueness  t 
Mere  fool  I    Mere  poet  I 

LXXV.— SCIENCE 

Th,«  sanff  the  magician;  and  all  who  were  present  went 
liklS  unalarSo  the  net  of  his  artful  and  melancholy 
voluoIISisnesI  Only  the  spiritually  conscientious  one  had 
ÄTuI  t   hej  onc^^^^^^^^^^^^^  the  harp  ^oin  the^rna- 

SLTtJarX:"  akesf  iis  '^e  sulfry  and  poisonous, 
thou  bad  old  magician  1 


300 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 


Thou  seducest,  thou  false  one,  thou  subtle  one,  to  un- 
known desires  and  deserts.  And  alas,  that  such  as  thou 
should  talk  and  make  ado  about  the  truth! 

Alas,  to  all  free  spirits  who  are  not  on  their  guard  against 
such  magicians!  It  is  all  over  with  their  freedom:  thou 
teachest  and  temptest  back  into  prisons, — 

— Thou  old  melancholy  devil,  out  of  thy  lament  soundeth 
a  lurement:  thou  resemblest  those  who  with  their  praise  of 
chastity  secretly  invite  to  voluptuousness!" 

Thus  spake  the  conscientious  one;  the  old  magician,  how- 
ever, looked  about  him,  enjoying  his  triumph,  and  on  that 
account  put  up  with  the  annoyance  which  the  conscientious 
one  caused  him.  "Be  still!"  said  he  with  modest  voice, 
"good  songs  want  to  re-echo  well;  after  good  songs  one 
should  be  long  silent. 

Thus  do  all  those  present,  the  higher  men.  Thou,  how- 
ever, hast  perhaps  understood  but  little  of  my  song?  In  thee 
there  is  little  of  the  magic  spirit." 

"Thou  praisest  me,"  replied  the  conscientious  one,  "in  that 
thou  separatest  me  from  thyself;  very  well!  But,  ye  others, 
what  do  I  see?  Ye  still  sit  there,  all  of  you,  with  lusting 
eyes — : 

Ye  free  spirits,  whither  hath  your  freedom  gone!  Ye  al- 
most seem  to  me  to  resemble  those  who  have  long  looked 
at  bad  girls  dancing  naked:  your  souls  themselves  dance! 

In  you,  ye  higher  men,  there  must  be  more  of  that  which 
the  magician  calleth  his  evil  spirit  of  magic  and  deceit: — 
we  must  indeed  be  different. 

And  verily,  we  spake  and  thought  long  enough  together 
ere  Zarathustra  came  home  to  his  cave,  for  me  not  to  be 
unaware  that  we  are  different. 

We  seek  different  things  even  here  aloft,  ye  and  I.  For 
I  seek  more  security;  on  that  account  have  I  come  to  Zara- 
thustra.   For  he  is  still  the  most  steadfast  tower  and  will — 

— ^To-day,  when  everything  tottereth,  when  all  the  earth 
quaketh.  Ye,  however,  when  I  see  what  eyes  ye  make,  it 
almost  seemeth  to  me  that  ye  seek  more  insecurity, 

— More  horror,  more  danger,  more  earthquake.  Ye  long 
(it  almost  seemeth  so  to  me — forgive  my  presumption,  ye 
higher  men) — 


LXXV— SCIENCE 


301 


—Ye  long  for  the  worst  and  dangerousest  life,  which 
frighteneth  me  most,— for  the  life  of  wild  beasts,  for  forests, 
caves,  steep  mountains  and  labyrinthme  gorg^. 

And  it  is  not  those  who  lead  out  of  danger  that  please  you 
best  but  those  who  lead  you  away  from  all  paths,  the  mis- 
leaders.  But  if  such  longing  m  you  be  actual,  it  seemeth  to 
me  nevertheless  to  be  impossible.  ^  .     ,         ^  i  ^^1 

For  fear— that  is  man's  original  and  fundamental  feel- 
ine-  through  fear  everything  is  explained,  original  sin  and 
original  virtue.    Through  fear  there  grew  also  my  vutue, 

that  is  to  say:  Science.  ,    ,.  ,        ,         *  *^ef^r^ 

For  fear  of  wild  animals-that  hath  been  longest  fostered 

in  man,  inclusive  of  the  animal  which  he  conce^eth  and 

fLeth  in  himself:-Zarathustra  calleth  it  'the  beast  in- 

Such  prolonged  ancient  fear,  at  last  become  subtle,  sp^ 
itual  and  intellectual— at  present,  methinketh,  it  is  called 

^"S  "i"ake  the  conscienüous  one;  but  Zarathustra,  who 
had  iust  a)me  back  into  his  cave  and  had  heard  and  divined 
Se  S  dTscourse,  threw  a  handful  of  roses  to  üie  c^^i^n; 
tious  one,  and  laughed  on  account  of  his  "tnr^.  ^yl 
he  exclaimed,  "what  did  I  hear  just  now?  Verily,  it  seem- 
eth to  me,  thou  art  a  fool,  or  else  I  myself  am  o^:  and 
auieüv  and  quickly  will  I  put  thy  'truth'  upside  down. 
^  For  /ear-is  an  exception  with  us.  Courage,  however, 
and  adventure,  and  delight  in  the  uncertain,  i"  ü'f  J?»*" 
tempted-co«rage  seemeth  to  me  the  enure  primitive  his- 

*"*  The^Sst  and  most  courageous  animals  hath  he  envied 
and  robbed  of  all  their  virtues:  thus  only  did  he  become- 

"täw  courage,  at  last  become  subtle,  spiritual  and  intel- 
lect Xs  f  uman  courage,  with  -gle^s  Pim°-  a^d  ^ 
Dent's  Wisdom:  this,  it  seemeth  to  me,  is  called  at  present— 
^%a7aZtrar'  cried  all  of  them  there  assembled  J  rf 
with  one  voice,  and  burst  out  at  the  same  time jnu,  a  great 
lauehter-  there  arose,  however,  from  them  as  it  were  a 
Sv  cloud.  Even  the  magician  laughed,  and  said  wisely: 
"Weill    It  is  gone,  mine  evil  spintl 


302 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 


And  did  I  not  myself  warn  you  against  it  when  I  said 
that  it  was  a  deceiver,  a  lying  and  deceiving  spirit? 

Especially  when  it  showeth  itself  naked.  But  what  can 
/  do  with  regard  to  its  tricks!  Have  /  created  it  and  the 
world? 

Well!  Let  us  be  good  again,  and  of  good  cheer!  And 
although  Zarathustra  looketh  with  evil  eye — ^just  see  him! 
he  disliketh  me — : 

— Ere  night  cometh  will  he  again  learn  to  love  and  laud 
me;  he  cannot  live  long  without  committing  such  follies. 

He — ^loveth  his  enemies:  this  art  knoweth  he  better  than 
^ny  one  I  have  seen.  But  he  taketh  revenge  for  it — on  his 
friends!" 

Thus  spake  the  old  magician,  and  the  higher  men  ap- 
plauded him;  so  that  Zarathustra  went  round,  and  mis- 
chievously and  lovingly  shook  hands  with  his  friends, — ^like 
one  who  hath  to  make  amends  and  apologise  to  every  one 
for  something.  When  however  he  had  thereby  come  to  the 
door  of  his  cave,  lo,  then  had  he  again  a  longing  for  the 
good  air  outside,  and  for  his  animals, — and  wished  to  steal 
out 


LXXVI.— AMONG  DAUGHTERS  OF  THE 

DESERT 

I. 

"Go  not  away!"  said  then  the  wanderer  who  called  him- 
self Zarathustra's  shadow,  "abide  with  us — otherwise  the 
old  gloomy  affliction  might  again  fall  upon  us. 

Now  hath  that  old  magician  given  us  of  his  worst  for  our 
good,  and  lo!  the  good,  pious  pope  there  hath  tears  in  his 
eyes,  and  hath  quite  embarked  again  upon  the  sea  of  mel- 
ancholy. 

Those  kings  may  well  put  on  a  good  air  before  us  still: 
for  that  have  they  learned  best  of  us  all  at  present!  Had 
they  however  no  one  to  see  them,  I  wager  tiat  with  them 
also  the  bad  game  would  again  commence, — 


LXXVI-DAUGHTERS  OF  THE  DESERT      303 

—The  bad  game  of  drifting  clouds,  of  damp  melancholy, 
of  curtained  heavens,  of  stolen  suns,  of  howlmg  autumn- 

"^^The  bad  game  of  our  howling  and  crying  for  help! 
Abide  with  us,  O  Zarathustra!  Here  there  is  much  con- 
cealed mSry  that  wisheth  to  speak,  much  evemng,  much 

cloud,  much  damp  air!  , 

Thou  hast  nourished  us  with  strong  food  for  men,  and 

powerful  proverbs:  do  not  let  the  weakly,  womanly  spirits 

'''^o:\Z::^T^^^r  around  th^  strong  and  dead 
Did  I  ever  find  anywhere  on  earth  such  good  air  as  with 

*Mlny%S'£tve  I  seen,  my  nose  haüi  learned  to  t^t 
and  Smate  many  kinds  of  air:  but  with  thee  do  my  nos- 
trils  taste  their  greatest  delight  1 

UiieS  it  be,-unless  it  be-,  do  forgive  an  old  recoUec- 
tionf  Forgive  me  an  old  after-dinner  song,  which  I  once 
composed  amongst  daughters  of  the  desert:—  .       , 

For  with  them  was  there  equally  good,  clear.  Oriental 
air;  th^e  was  I  furthest  from  cloudy,  damp,  melancholy 

^  x'SnTd  I  love  such  Oriental  maidens  and  other  blue 
kingdoms  of  h^ven,  over  which  hang  no  clouds  and  no 

*  vf^would  not  believe  how  charmingly  they  sat  there, 
wh^n  they  did  not  dance,  profound,  but  without  thoughte^ 
Hke  litüe'secrets,  like  beribboned  riddlesj^^^e  d^f  ^^^ 

Many-hued  and  foreign,  forsooth!  but  ^thout  clouds, 
riddles  which  can  be  guessed:  to  please  such  maidens  I 
then  composed  an  after-dinner  psalm.  Zarathus- 

Thus  spake  the  wanderer  who  called  ^^if^^elf  Zaratüus 
tra's  shadow;  and  before  any  orie  answered  h  m   he  had 
seized  the  harp  of  the  old  «^^S»^'^";  ^5°^^^!^^'^^^^ 
looked  calmly  and  sagely  around  h^«" -"^l^^f J^^^^^ 
however  he  inhaled  the  air  slowly  and  questionmgiy,  ukc 
onl  who  in  new  countries  tasteth  new  foreign  air.    After- 
ward he  began  to  sing  with  a  kind  of  roanng. 


iimww    ' 


304  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 


3. 

The  deserts  grow:  woe  him  who  doth  them  hidet 

—Ha! 

Solemnly  1 

In  effect  solemnly  I 

A  worthy  beginning  I 

Afric  manner,  solemnly  I 

Of  a  lion  worthy, 

Or  perhaps  of  a  virtuous  howl-monkey— # 

— But  it's  naught  to  you, 

Ye  friendly  damsels  dearly  loved, 

At  whose  own  feet  to  me, 

The  first  occasion. 

To  a  European  under  palm-trees, 

At  seat  is  now  granted.    Selah. 

Wonderful,  truly  1 

Here  do  I  sit  now. 

The  desert  nigh,  and  yet  I  am 

So  far  still  from  the  desert. 

Even  in  naught  yet  deserted: 

That  is,  I'm  swallowed  down 

By  this  the  smallest  oasis — : 

— It  opened  up  just  yawning. 

Its  loveliest  mouth  agape, 

Most  sweet-odoured  of  all  mouthlets: 

Then  fell  I  right  in, 

Right  down,  right  through — in  'mong  you. 

Ye  friendly  damsels  dearly  loved!     Selah. 

Hail!  hail!   to  that  whale,  fishlike. 

If  it  thus  for  its  guest's  convenience 

Made  things  nice! — (ye  well  know. 

Surely,  my  learned  allusion?) 

Hail  to  its  belly. 

If  it  had  e'er 

A  such  loveliest  oasis-belly 

As  this  is:  though  however  I  doubt  about  it, 

—With  this  come  I  out  of  Old-Europe, 


LXXVI-DAUGHTERS  OF  THE  DESERT      305 

That  doubt'th  more  eagerly  than  doth  any 
Elderly  married  woman. 
May  the  Lord  improve  iti 
Amenl 

Here  do  I  sit  now, 

In  this  the  smallest  oasis, 

Like  a  date  indeed. 

Brown,  quite  sweet,  gold-suppurating, 

For  rounded  mouth  of  maiden  longing. 

But  yet  still  more  for  youthful,  maidlike, 

Ice-cold  and  snow-white  and  inasory 

Front  teeth:  and  for  such  assuredly, 

Pine  the  hearts  all  of  ardent  date-f nuts.  •  Sdah. 

To  the  there-named  south-fruits  now, 

Similar,  all-too-similar. 

Do  I  Ue  here;  by  little 

Flying  insects  , 

Round-sniffled  and  round-played. 

And  also  by  yet  littler, 

Foolisher,  and  peccabler 

Wishes  and  phantasies,— 

Environed  by  you, 

Ye  silent,  presentientest 

Maiden-kittenS; 

Dudu  and  Suleika,  ^ 

—Roundsphinxed,  that  into  one  word 

I  may  crowd  much  feeling: 

(Forgive  me,  O  God, 

All  such  speech-sinning!) 

—Sit  I  here  the  best  of  air  sniffling, 

Paradisal  air,  truly,  entiled. 

Bright  and  buoyant  air,  golden-motUeO, 

As  goodly  air  as  ever 

From  lunar  orb  downfell— 

Be  it  by  hazard, 

Or  supervened  it  by  arrogancy? 

As  the  ancient  poets  relate  it. 

But  doubter,  I'm  now  calling  it 


i 


06 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 


In  question:  with  this  do  I  come  indeed 

Out  of  Europe, 

That  doubt 'th  more  eagerly  than  doth  any 

Elderly  married  woman. 

May  the  Lord  improve  itl 

Amen. 


This  the  finest  air  drinking, 

With  nostrils  out-swelled  like  goblets, 

Lacking  future,  lacking  remembrances, 

Thus  do  I  sit  here,  ye 

Friendly  damsels  dearly  loved, 

And  look  at  the  palm-tree  there, 

How  it,  to  a  dance-girl,  like. 

Doth  bow  and  bend  and  on  its  hunches  bob, 

— One  doth  it  too,  when  one  view'th  it  long! — • 

To  a  dance-girl  like,  who  as  it  seem'th  to  me. 

Too  long,  and  dangerously  persistent. 

Always,  always,  just  on  single  leg  hath  stood? 

— Then  forgot  she  thereby,  as  it  seem'th  to  mCi 

The  other  leg? 

For  vainly  I,  at  least. 

Did  search  for  the  amissing 

Fellow-jewel 

— Namely,  the  other  leg — 

In  the  sanctified  precincts, 

Nigh  her  very  dearest,  very  tenderest, 

Flapping  and  fluttering  and  flickering  skirting. 

Yea,  if  ye  should,  ye  beauteous  friendly  ones, 

Quite  take  my  word: 

She  hath,  alas!  lost  it! 

Hu!  Hu!  Hu!  Hu!  Hu! 

It  is  away! 

For  ever  away! 

The  other  leg! 

Oh,  pity  for  that  loveliest  other  legi 

Where  may  it  now  tarry,  all-forsaken  weeping? 

The  lonesomest  leg? 

In  fear  perhaps  before  a 

Furious,  yellow,  blond  and  curled 


LXXVI-DAUGHTERS  OF  THE  DESERT      307 

Leonine  monster?    Or  perhaps  even 

S  w-S,Ä  w«fc  mbbled  badly.  Setah. 

Oh,  weep  ye  not, 

Gentle  spirits! 

Weeo  ye  not,  ye 

Date-fruit  spirits!    Milk-bosomsl 

Ye  sweetwood-heart 

Purseletsl 

Weep  ye  no  more. 

Pallid  Dudul 

Be  a  man,  Suleikal    Bold!    Bold! 

Or  else  should  there  perhaps  . 

i^ethSg  strengthening,  heart-strengthening, 

Here  most  proper  be? 

Some  inspiring  text? 

Some  solemn  exhortation? — 

Hal    Up  now!  honour! 

Moral  honour!     European  honour! 

Blow  again,  continue. 

Bellows-box  of  virtue! 

Hal 

Once  more  thy  roaring, 

Thy  moral  roaring! 

As  a  virtuous  lion  . 

Nigh  the  daughters  of  deserts  roanngl 

For  virtue's  out-howl. 

Ye  very  dearest  maidens, 

Is  more  than  every  i,„««pr! 

European  fervour,  European  hot-hungerl 

And  now  do  I  stand  here, 

fi"T&re»..  God's  help  to  mel 

Amen! 

-.^^  hi^  who  doth  them  hidet 
The  deserts  grow:  woe  htm  wno  aot,n^ 


3o8  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 


LXXVIL— THE  AWAKENING 

After  the  song  of  the  wanderer  and  shadow,  the  cave 
became  all  at  once  full  of  noise  and  laughter:  and  since  the 
assembled  guests  all  spake  simultaneously,  and  even  the 
ass,  encouraged  thereby,  no  longer  remained  silent,  a  little 
aversion  and  scorn  for  his  visitors  came  over  Zarathustra, 
although  he  rejoiced  at  their  gladness.  For  it  seemed  to 
him  a  sign  of  convalescence.  So  he  slipped  out  into  the 
open  air  and  spake  to  his  animals. 

"Whither  hath  their  distress  now  gone?''  said  he,  and 
already  did  he  himself  feel  relieved  of  his  petty  disgust— 
"with  me,  it  seemeth  that  they  have  xmleamed  their  cries 
of  distress  I 

—Though,  alasl  not  yet  their  crying."  And  Zarathustra 
stopped  his  ears,  for  just  then  did  the  Ye-a  of  the  ass  mix 
strangely  with  the  noisy  jubilation  of  those  higher  men. 

"They  are  merry,"  he  began  again,  "and  who  knoweth? 
perhaps  at  their  host's  expense;  and  if  they  have  learned 
of  me  to  laugh,  still  it  is  not  my  laughter  they  have 
learned. 

But  what  matter  about  that!  They  are  old  people:  they 
recover  in  their  own  way,  they  laugh  in  their  own  way;  mine 
ears  have  already  endured  worse  and  have  not  become 
peevish. 

This  day  is  a  victory:  he  already  yieldeth,  he  fleeth,  the 
spirit  of  gravity,  mine  old  arch-enemy  1  How  well  this  day 
is  about  to  end,  which  began  so  badly  and  gloomily! 

And  it  is  about  to  end.  Already  cometh  the  evening: 
over  the  sea  rideth  it  hither,  the  good  rider!  How  it  bob- 
beth,  the  blessed  one,  the  home-returning  one,  in  its  purple 
saddles! 

The  sky  gazeth  brightly  thereon,  the  world  lieth  deep. 
Oh,  all  ye  strange  ones  who  have  come  to  me,  it  is  already 
worth  while  to  have  lived  with  me!" 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra.    And  again  came  the  cries  and 


LXXVII— THE  AWAKENING 


309 


laughter  of  the  higher  men  out  of  the  cave:  then  began  he 

"^'tU  bite  at  it,  my  bait  taketh,  there  departeth  also 
fJSm  their  enemy,  the  spirit  of  gjavitj.     N^^^^  do  they 

orn  fn  laugh  at  themselves:  do  I  hear  rightly? 
^X  viÄä  effect,  my  strong  and  savoury 

;7a  J  mid  verilv  I  did  not  nourish  them  with  flatulent 
"^tabiesr^  -^^  conqueror.food: 

new  desires  did  I  awaken.  import*;  ex- 

"'Sew  hopes  are  in  their  arms  and  leg   th^^^^^^ 
pand.    They  find  new  words,  soon  will  their  spinis  oredtu 

""siTfSd  may  sure  enough  not  be  proper  for  children 

They  empty  the^tom^g^™«^^  ,^,^. 
Hey  keep  holiday  »»'' ™"™''u"'äey  become  thankful. 
No^Uf  Jlnt\re^S  S  JtivaU.  and  put  up 
memorials  to  their  oldjoys.  Zarathustra  joy- 

silence. 

2. 

All  on  a  sudden  ^ryT^f^S^^^f^"''^ 
ened:  for  the  cave  which  '^^°'Sj;'°  ^th;-his  nose, 

himself,  »5'"/'lVL    *«"%.?  «nderupin  wonder, 
unobserved  to  see  his  ^^f  ^-     "f^    .^1.  u^^  own  eyes! 


■  Hn^lMMII  it 


3IO 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 


LXXVIII— THE  ASS-FESTIVAL 


311 


they  are  mad  1 " — said  he,  and  was  astonished  beyond  meas- 
ure. And  forsooth!  all  these  higher  men,  the  two  kings 
the  pope  out  of  service,  the  evil  magician,  the  voluntary 
beggar,  the  wanderer  and  shadow,  the  old  soothsayer,  the 
spiritually  conscientious  one,  and  the  ugliest  man — they 
all  lay  on  their  knees  like  children  and  credulous  old  women, 
and  worshipped  the  ass.  And  just  then  began  the  ugliest 
man  to  gurgle  and  snort,  as  if  something  unutterable  in 
him  tried  to  find  expression;  when,  however,  he  had  ac- 
tually found  words,  behold!  it  was  a  pious,  strange  litany 
in  praise  of  the  adored  and  censed  ass.  And  the  litany 
sounded  thus: 

Amen!  And  glory  and  honour  and  wisdom  and  thanks 
and  praise  and  strength  be  to  our  God,  from  everlasting  to 
everlasting! 

— ^The  ass,  however,  here  brayed  Ye-a. 

He  carrieth  our  burdens,  he  hath  taken  upon  him  the 
form  of  a  servant,  he  is  patient  of  heart  and  never  saith 
Nay;  and  he  who  loveth  his  God  chastiseth  him. 

— ^The  ass,  however,  here  brayed  Ye-a. 

He  speaketh  not:  except  that  he  ever  saith  Yea  to  the 
world  which  he  created:  thus  doth  he  extol  his  world.  It  is 
his  artfulness  that  speaketh  not:  thus  is  he  rarely  found 
wrong. 

— The  ass,  however,  here  brayed  Ye-a. 

Uncomely  goeth  he  through  the  world.  Grey  is  the 
favourite  colour  in  which  he  wrappeth  his  virtue.  Hath  he 
spirit,  then  doth  he  conceal  it;  every  one,  however,  be- 
lieveth  in  his  long  ears. 

— The  ass,  however,  here  brayed  Ye-a. 

What  hidden  wisdom  it  is  to  wear  long  ears,  and  only  to 
say  Yea  and  never  Nay!  Hath  he  not  created  the  world 
in  his  own  image,  namely,  as  stupid  as  possible? 

— The  ass,  however,  here  brayed  Ye-a. 

Thou  goest  straight  and  crooked  ways;  it  concerneth  thee 
little  what  seemeth  straight  or  crooked  unto  us  men.  Be- 
yond good  and  evil  is  thy  domain.  It  is  thine  innocence  not 
to  know  what  innocence  is. 

— The  ass,  however,  here  brayed  Ye-a. 


Tot  how  thou  spumest  none  from  thee,  neither  beggars 
nor  kings.  Thou  sufferest  little  children  to  come  unto  thee, 
and  whS  the  bad  boys  decoy  thee,  then  sayest  thou  simply, 

Ye-a 

—The  ass,  however,  here  brayed  Ye-a. 

Thou  lovest  she-asses  and  fresh  figs,  thou  art  no  food- 
deSser.  A  thistle  tickleth  thy  heart  when  thou  chancest 
to  be  hungry.    There  is  the  wisdom  of  a  God  therein. 

—The  ass,  however,  here  brayed  Ye-a. 


LXXVIII.— THE  ASS-FESTWAL 

X. 

At  this  place  in  the  litany,  however,  Zarathustmcovrtd  no 
lon^r  control  himself;  he  himself  cried  «"^  YE-^ouder 
Vvm  than  the  ass,  and  sprang  into  the  midst  of  his  mad- 
denVSite  Whatever  are  you  about,  ye  grown-up  chil- 
S-'SrSclaimed,  pulling  up  the  H^^J^J^^:^^ 
ground.     "Alas,  if  any  one  else,  except  Zarathustra,  naa 

'ISvSy  one  would  think  you  the  worst  blasphemers,  or  the 

very  foolishest  old  women,  with  yo"f,  °^\^f  5* '         dance 
And  thou  thyself,  thou  old  pope,  how  is  »^  f  J^J,<?,y^°''^ 

with  thee,  to  adore  an  ass  in  such  a  «»^nner  as  God? 
"O  Zarathustra,"  answered  the  pope,     forgive  me,  Dut 

in  divine  matters  I  am  more  enlightened  even  than  thou. 

And  it  is  right  that  it  should  be  so. 
Better  to  adore  God  so,  in  this.form   than  in  no  fonn 

at  all!     Think  over  this  saymg,  mme  exalted  ^ "«J^ .  toou 

wilt  readily  divine  that  in  such  a  saying  *««;^  ^^/j^e 
He  who  said  'God  is  a  Spint'-made  the  greatest  stnde 
and  slide  hitherto  made  on  earth  towards  unbelief,  such  a 
dictum  is  not  easily  amended  again  on  earth! 

Mine  old  heart  leapeth  and  boundeth  ^«f  J!f ^^^hus- 
still  something  to  adore  on  earth.    Forgive  it,  O  Zarathus 
tra,  to  an  old,  pious  pontiff-heart!—  „^„Hprer  and 

—«And  thou,"  said  Zarathustra  to  the  wanderer  ana 


h 


312  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 

shadow,  "thou  callest  and  thinkest  thyself  a  free  spirit? 
And  thou  here  practises t  such  idolatry  and  hierolatry? 
,  Worse  verily,  doest  thou  here  than  with  thy  bad  brown 
girls,  thou  bad,  new  believer!" 

"It  is  sad  enough,"  answered  the  wanderer  and  shadow, 
"thou  art  right:  but  how  can  I  help  it  I  The  old  God  liveth 
again,  O  Zarathustra,  thou  mayst  say  what  thou  wilt. 

The  ugliest  man  is  to  blame  for  it  all:  he  hath  reawak- 
ened him.  And  if  he  say  that  he  once  killed  him,  with  Gods 
death  is  always  just  a  prejudice." 

— "And  thou,"  said  Zarathustra,  "thou  bad  old  ma- 
gician, what  didst  thou  do!  Who  ought  to  believe  any 
longer  in  thee  in  this  free  age,  when  thou  believest  in  such 
divine  donkeyism? 

It  was  a  stupid  thing  that  thou  didst;  how  couldst  thou, 
a  shrewd  man,  do  such  a  stupid  thing!" 

"O  Zarathustra,"  answered  the  shrewd  magician,  "thou 
art  right,  it  was  a  stupid  thing, — it  was  also  repugnant  to 
me." 

— ^"And  thou  even,"  said  Zarathustra  to  the  spiritually 
conscientious  one,  "consider,  and  put  thy  finger  to  thy  nose! 
Doth  nothing  go  against  thy  conscience  here?  Is  thy  spirit 
not  too  cleanly  for  this  praying  and  the  fumes  of  those 
devotees?" 

"There  is  something  therein,"  said  the  spiritually  con- 
scientious one,  and  put  his  finger  to  his  nose,  "there  is 
something  in  this  spectacle  which  even  doeth  good  to  my 
conscience. 

Perhaps  I  dare  not  believe  in  God :  certain  it  is  however, 
that  God  seemeth  to  me  most  worthy  of  belief  in  this  form. 

God  is  said  to  be  eternal,  according  to  the  testimony  of 
the  most  pious:  he  who  hath  so  much  time  taketh  his  time. 
As  slow  and  as  stupid  as  possible:  thereby  can  such  a  one 
nevertheless  go  very  far. 

And  he  who  hath  too  much  spirit  might  well  become  in- 
fatuated with  stupidity  and  folly.  Think  of  thyself,  O 
Zarathustra! 

Thou  thyself— verily!  even  thou  couldst  well  become 
an  ass  through  superabundance  of  wisdom. 

Doth  not  the  true  sage  willingly  walk  on  the  crookedest 


LXXVIII— THE  ASS-FESTIVAL 


313 


paths?     The  evidence  teacheth  it,  O  Zarathustra,— ^Ame 

'''^— "An?  Aou  thyself,  finally,"  said  Zarathustra,  and 
turned  towards  the  ugliest  man,  who  still  lay  on  the  ground 
stretching  up  his  arm  to  the  ass  (for  he  gave  it  wine  to 
drink).     "Say,   thou  nondescript,  what  hast   thou  been 

^  Thou  seemest  to  me  transformed,  thine  eyes  glow  the 
manüe  of  the  sublime  covereth  thine  ugliness:  what  didst 

Is  iUhen  true  what  they  say,  that  thou  hast  again  awak- 
ened him?    And  why?    Was  he  not  for  good  reasons  killed 

and  made  away  with?  ,      i.  *  a\a^*  tv«,. 

Thou  thyself  seemest  to  me  awakened:  what  didst  tuou 
do?  why  didst  thou  turn  round?    Why  didst  thou  get  con- 
verted?   Speak,  thou  nondescript!" 
"O  Zarathustra,"  answered  the  ugliest  man,  "thou  art  a 

'"whether  he  yet  liveth,  or  again  «veth,  or  is  tiiorougUy 
dead— which   of   us   both   knoweth   that   best?     I   ask 

'Xe  thing  however  do  I  know,-from  thyself  did  I  l^m 
it  once  O  Zarathustra:  he  who  wanteth  to  kill  most  thor- 

°"ffi'  by'tt^h  but  by  laughter  doth  one  kiU'-Jus 
spakest  thou  once,  O  Zarathustra,  thou  hidden  one  Aou 
destroyer  without  wrath,  thou  dangerous  saint,-thou  art  a 
rogue I" 

2. 

Then  however,  did  it  come  to  pass  that  Zarathustra, 
astoSed  at  such  merely  roguish  answe^,  J"-^db^J 
to  the  door  of  his  cave,  and  turning  towards  all  his  guests, 
cried  out  with  a  strong  voice:  . 

«O  ye  wags,  all  of  you,  ye  buffoons!  Why  do  ye  dis- 
semble  and  disguise  yourselves  before  me! 

How  the  hearts  of  all  of  you  convulsed  with  dehght  and 
wickedness,  because  ye  had  at  last  become  agam  like  little 
children— namely,  pious, — 


mv[m'^i%-'(m\a\"i' tmnr  " 


r-,^-4...^mi  ■^'fi 


314  THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 

— Because  ye  at  last  did  again  as  children  do — namely, 
prayed,  folded  your  hands  and  said  'good  GodM 

But  now  leave,  I  pray  you,  this  nursery,  mine  own  cave, 
where  to-day  all  childishness  is  carried  on.  Cool  down, 
here  outside,  your  hot  child-wantonness  and  heart- tumult! 

To  be  sure:  except  ye  become  as  little  children  ye  shall 
not  enter  into  that  kingdom  of  heaven."  (And  Zarathustra 
pointed  aloft  with  his  hands.) 

"But  we  do  not  at  all  want  to  enter  into  the  kingdom  of 
heaven :  we  have  become  men, — so  we  want  the  kingdom  of 
earth/' 


LXXIX— THE  DRUNKEN  SONG 


315 


And  once  more  began  Zarathustra  to  speak.  "O  my  new 
friends,"  said  he, — "ye  strange  ones,  ye  higher  men,  how 
well  do  ye  now  please  me, — 

— Since  ye  have  again  become  joyful!  Ye  have,  verily, 
all  blossomed  forth:  it  seemeth  to  me  that  for  such  flowers 
as  you,  new  festivals  axe  required. 

— ^A  little  valiant  nonsense,  some  divine  service  and  ass- 
festival,  some  old  joyful  Zarathustra  fool,  some  blusterer 
to  blow  your  souls  bright. 

Forget  not  this  night  and  this  ass-festival,  ye  higher  men! 
That  did  ye  devise  when  with  me,  that  do  I  take  as  a  good 
omen, — such  things  only  the  convalescents  devise! 

And  should  ye  celebrate  it  again,  this  ass-festival,  do  it 
from  love  to  yourselves,  do  it  also  from  love  to  me!  And 
in  remembrance  of  me/" 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


LXXIX.— THE   DRUNKEN   SONG 

z. 

Meanwhile  one  after  another  had  gone  out  into  the  open 
air,  and  into  the  cool,  thoughtful  night;  Zarathustra  him- 
self, however,  led  the  ugliest  man  by  the  hand,  that  he 


might  show  him  his  night-world,  and  the  great  round  moon 
Äe  silvery  water-falls  near  his  cave.  There  they  at 
hst  stood  still  beside  one  another;  all  of  them  old  people, 
but  with  comforted,  brave  hearts,  and  astonished  m  them- 
Svelthat  it  was  so  well  with  them  on  earth;  the  mystery 
of  the  nfght,  however,  came  nigher  and  nigher  to  heir 
hearts  And  anew  Zarathustra  thought  to  himself:  Oh 
how  well  do  they  now  please  me,  these  higher  men! "-but 
he  did  not  say  it  aloud,  for  he  respected  their  happiness 

'^Thef  h^^^^^^^  happened  that  which  in  this  aston- 

ishinVlonR  d^^  was  most  astonishing:  the  ugliest  man  be- 
ishmg  long  udy  w  ^^       ^^^ 

gan  once  more  and  tor  tne  lasi  umc  lu  ^u  g        ,    , , ,    V 
when  he  had  at  length  found  expression,  behold!    there 
Tprang  a  question  plump  and  plain  out  of  his  mouth,  a 
good   deep,  clear  question,  which  moved  the  hearts  of  all 

who  listened  to  him.  «what 

"My  friends,  all  of  you,"  said  the  ^g^f  \?1^ Jv  .  ^^^ 

think  ye?    For  the  sake  of  this  day-/  am  for  the  first  time 

content  to  have  lived  mine  entire  life. 
C  that  I  testify  so  much  is  stiJl  not  enough  for  me    I 

is  worth  while  living  on  the  earth:  «"«^ay    one  festival 

with  Zarathustra,  hath  taught  me  to  loj  the  ^rth 
'Was  that—Mier  will  I  say  unto  death.     Weill     Unce 

"  My  friends,  what  think  ye?  Will  ye  not,  If  Jie,  ^J 
unto  death:  'Was  that-Uie?  For  the  sake  of  Zarathus- 
tra, well!    Once  more!'" i,„wPvpr   far 

Thus  spake  the  ugliest  man;  it  '^as  not   however,  tM 
from  midnight.    And  what  took  Pl^ce  then  think  ye?    As 

soon  as  the  higher  men  heard  his  ^"^^100^^^!^^^'^^^^ 
at  once  conscious  of  their  transformation  and  convaljce^^e, 
and  of  him  who  was  the  cause  thereof:  the«  did  »hey  rxish 
up  to  Zarathustra,  thanking,  honouring,  caressing  hirn,  ^d 

kissing  his  hands,  each  in  his  own  P^^f  !;^Ser  hJ^ 
some  laughed  .-^  --.^t.    T^^^  ^ow^ 

ever,  danced  with  delight,  ana  tnougn  iic  w  '.  ,       .,, 

narr'ators  suppose,  full  of  sweet  wine  he  ^^^^^^l^amly  st^^^ 
fuller  of  sweet  life,  and  had  renounced  aU  f  ^^V"^!:  J°J^^ 
are  even  those  who  narrate  that  the  ass  then  danced,  for  not 


3i6 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 


LXXIX— THE  DRUNKEN  SONG 


317 


in  vain  had  the  ugliest  man  previously  given  it  wine  to 
drink.  That  may  be  the  case,  or  it  may  be  otherwise;  and 
if  in  truth  the  ass  did  not  dance  that  evening,  there  never- 
the  less  happened  then  greater  and  rarer  wonders  than  the 
dancing  of  an  ass  would  have  been.  In  short,  as  the  proverb 
of  Zarathustra  saith:    "What  doth  it  matter  1" 


2. 

When,  however,  this  took  place  with  the  ugliest  man, 
Zarathustra  stood  there  like  one  drunken :  his  glance  dulled, 
his  tongue  faltered  and  his  feet  staggered.  And  who  could 
divine  what  thoughts  then  passed  through  ZarathuStra's 
soul?  Apparently,  however,  his  spirit  retreated  and  fled  in 
advance  and  was  in  remote  distances,  and  as  it  were  "wan- 
dering on  high  mountain-ridges,"  as  it  standeth  written, 
"  'twixt  two  seas, 

— Wandering  'twixt  the  past  and  the  future  as  a  heavy 
cloud."  Gradually,  however,  while  the  higher  men  held 
him  in  their  arms,  he  came  back  to  himself  a  little,  and 
resisted  with  his  hands  the  crowd  of  the  honouring  and 
caring  ones;  but  he  did  not  speak.  All  at  once,  however, 
he  turned  his  head  quickly,  for  he  seemed  to  hear  some- 
thing:   then  laid  he  his  finger  on  his  mouth  and  said: 

''Comer 

And  immediately  it  became  still  and  mysterious  round 
about;  from  the  depth  however  there  came  up  slowly  the 
sound  of  a  clock-bell.  Zarathustra  listened  thereto,  like 
the  higher  men;  then,  however,  laid  he  his  finger  on  his 
mouth  the  second  time,  and  said  again:  ''Come/  Come! 
It  is  getting  on  to  midnight  T — and  his  voice  had  changed. 
But  still  he  had  not  moved  from  the  spot.  Then  it  became 
yet  stiller  and  more  mysterious,  and  everything  hearkened, 
even  the  ass,  and  Zarathustra's  noble  animals,  the  eagle  and 
the  serpent, — ^likewise  the  cave  of  Zarathustra  and  the  big 
cool  moon,  and  the  night  itself.  Zarathustra,  however,  laid 
his  hand  upon  his  mouth  for  the  third  time,  and  said: 

Come!  Come  I  Come!  Let  us  now  wander!  It  is  the 
hour:  let  us  wander  into  the  night! 


Ye  higher  men,  it  is  getting  on  to  midnight:  then  ^^ 
sarsomething  into  your  ears,  as  that  old  clock-bell  saith 

■'  i^'Ltt.Sly,  -  frightfully,  and  as  »rdjally  ^t 

midnight  clock-bell  speaketh  it  to  me,  which  hath  expen- 

PTirpH  more  than  one  man:  ,     1 1  •         e 

-^mch  hath  already  counted  the  smarting  throbbmgs  of 
your  fathers'  heart^ah!  ahl  how  it  sigheth  how  it  laugh- 
eth  in  its  dream!  the  old,  deep,  deep  midnight! 

Hush'  Hush!  Then  is  there  many  a  thing  heard  which 
may  not  be  heard  by  day;  now  however,  in  the  cool  air, 
when  even  all  the  tumult  of  your  hearts  hath  become  stül,- 

—Now  doth  it  speak,  now  is  it  heard,  now  doth  it  steal 
into  ovTrvT^eful,  Sctumal  souls:  ah!  ah!  how  the  mid- 
night  sigheth!  how  it  laugheth  m  its  dream! 

-Heirest  thou  not  how  it  mysteriously,  fngl»tf""y'.  ^^ 
cordidly  speaketh  unto  thee,  the  old  deep,  deep  midmght? 

0  man,  take  heedl 


Woe  to  me!  Whither  hath  time  gone?  Have  I  not  sunk 
into  deep  wells?   The  world  sleepeth—  ^ 

Ahl  Ah!  The  doe  howleth,  the  moon  shmeth.  Katner 
wif  I  di^ratier  wSf  I  die,  than  say  unto  you  what  my 

midnight-heart  now  thinketh.  cnlnnest 

AlrW  have  I  died.    It  is  all  over.    Spider  why  spinnet 

thou  around  me?    Wilt  thou  have  blood?    Ah!    Ahl    The 

dew  falleth,  the  hour  cometh—  ocVAth 

—The  hour  in  which  I  frost  and  freeze,  which  asketh 

and  SetS^I^d  asketh:    «Who  hath  sufficient  courage  for 

'* -Who  is  to  be  master  of  the  world?    Wh;>^^f  "^  *° 
say:    Thus  shall  ye  flow,  ye  great  and  «mdl  streams! 

-The  hour  approacheth:  O  man,  thou  ljg«^an,  take 
heedl  this  talk  is  for  fine  ears,  for  thine  ears^-wÄa«  sastH 
deep  midnight's  voice  indeed? 


3^8 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 


LXXIX— THE  DRUNKEN  SONG 


319 


It  carrieth  me  away,  my  soul  danceth.  Day's-work! 
DayVwork!    Who  is  to  be  master  of  the  world? 

The  moon  is  cool,  the  wind  is  still.  Ahl  Ah!  Have  ye 
already  flown  high  enough?  Ye  have  danced:  a  leg,  never- 
theless, is  not  a  wing. 

Ye  good  dancers,  now  is  all  delight  over:  wine  hath  be- 
come lees,  every  cup  hath  become  brittle,  the  sepulchres 

mutter. 

Ye  have  not  flown  high  enough:  now  do  the  sepulchres 
mutter:  "Free  the  dead!  Why  is  it  so  long  night?  Doth 
not  the  moon  make  us  drunken?" 

Ye  higher  men,  free  the  sepulchres,  awaken  the  corpses! 
Ah,  why  doth  the  worm  still  burrow?  There  approacheth. 
there  approacheth,  the  hour, — 

—There  boometh  the  clock-bell,  there  thrilleth  still  the 
heart,  there  burroweth  still  the  wood-worm,  the  heart-worm. 
Ah!    Ah!    The  world  is  deep  I 


6. 

Sweet  lyre!  Sweet  lyre!  I  love  thy  tone,  thy  drunken, 
ranunculine  tone! — ^how  long,  how  far  hath  come  unto  me 
thy  tone,  from  the  distance,  from  the  ponds  of  love! 

Thou  old  clock-bell,  thou  sweet  lyre!  Every  pain  hath 
torn  thy  heart,  father-pain,  fathers'-pain,  forefathers'-pain; 
thy  speech  hath  become  ripe, — 

— Ripe  like  the  golden  autumn  and  the  afternoon,  like 
mine  anchorite  heart — now  sayest  thou:  The  world  itself 
liath  become  ripe,  the  grape  turneth  brown, 

— ^Now  doth  it  wish  to  die,  to  die  of  happiness.  Ye 
higher  men,  do  ye  not  feel  it?  There  welleth  up  mysteri- 
ously an  odoiu", 

— ^A  perfume  and  odour  of  eternity,  a  rosy-blessed,  brown, 

gold-wine-odour  of  old  happiness. 

— Of  drunken  midnight-death  happiness,  which  singeth: 
the  world  is  deep,  and  deeper  than  the  day  could  read! 


Leave  me  alone!  Leave  me  alone!  I  am  too  pure  for 
thee.  Touch  me  not!  Hath  not  my  world  just  now  be- 
come perfect?  i         ^1. 

My  skin  is  too  pure  for  thy  hands.  Leave  me  alone,  tnou 
dull  doltish,  stupid  day!     Is  not  the  midnight  brighter? 

The  purest  are  to  be  masters  of  the  world,  the  least 
known,  the  strongest,  the  midnight-souls,  who  are  brighter 

and  deeper  than  any  day.  .    ,       .  t        • 

O  day,  thou  gropest  for  me?  Thou  feelest  for  my  happi- 
ness?   For  thee  am  I  rich,  lonesome,  a  treasure-pit,  a  gold 

chamber?  ,  „     r       i.     ->     a 

O  world,  thou  wantest  me?    Am  I  worldly  for  thee?    Am 

I  spiritual  for  thee?    Am  I  divine  for  thee?     But  day  and 

world,  ye  are  too  coarse, — 
—Have  cleverer  hands,   grasp  after  deeper  happmess, 

after  deeper  uilhappiness,  grasp  after  some  God;  grasp  not 

after  me: 
—Mine  unhappiness,  my  happiness  is  deep,  thou  strange 

day,  but  yet  am  I  no  God,  no  God's-hell:  deep  ts  tts  woe. 


8. 

God's  woe  is  deeper,  thou  strange  world!  Grasp  at  God's 
woe,  not  at  me!    What  am  I!    A  drunken  sweet  lyre,— 

—A  midnight-lyre,  a  bell-frog,  which  no  one  understand- 
eth,  but  which  must  speak  before  deaf  ones,  ye  higher  men! 
For  ye  do  not  understand  me ! 

Gone!  Gone!  O  youth!  O  noontide!  O  afternoon! 
Now  have  come  evening  and  night  and  midnight,— the  dog 

howleth,  the  wind:  ,    .  ,     ,   .1.  -^  i.     i 

—Is  the  wind  not  a  dog?  It  whineth,  it  barketh,  it  howl- 
eth. Ah!  Ah!  how  she  sigheth!  hew  she  laugheth,  how  she 
wheezeth  and  panteth,  the  midnight! 

How  she  just  now  speaketh  soberly,  this  drunken  poete^l 
hath  she  perhaps  overdrunk  her  drunkenness?  hath  she  be- 
come Gverawake?  doth  she  raminate? 


320 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 


LXXIX— THE  DRUNKEN  SONG 


3^1 


— ^Her  woe  doth  she  ruminate  over,  in  a  dream,  the  old, 
deep  midnight — and  still  more  her  joy.  For  joy,  although 
woe  be  deep,  joy  is  deeper  still  than  grief  can  be. 


Thou  grape-vine!  Why  dost  thou  praise  me?  Have  I 
not  cut  thee!  I  am  cruel,  thou  bleedest — :  what  meaneth 
thy  praise  of  my  drunken  cruelty? 

"Whatever  hath  become  perfect,  everything  mature— 
wanteth  to  die!"  so  sayest  thou.  Blessed,  blessed  be  the 
vintner's  knife!  But  everything  immature  wanteth  to  live: 
alas! 

Woe  saith:  "Hence!  Go!  Away,  thou  woe!"  But 
everything  that  suffereth  wanteth  to  Uve,  that  it  may  be- 
come mature  and  lively  and  longing, 

— ^Longing  for  the  further,  the  higher,  the  brighter.  "I 
want  heirs,"  so  saith  everything  that  suffereth,  "I  want 
children,  I  do  not  want  myself/' — 

Joy,  however,  doth  not  want  heirs,  it  doth  not  want  chil- 
dren,— ^joy  wanteth  itself,  it  wanteth  eternity,  it  wanteth 
recurrence,  it  wanteth  everything  eternally-like-itself. 

Woe  saith:  "Break,  bleed,  thou  heart!  Wander,  thou 
leg!  Thou  wing,  fly!  Onward!  upward!  thou  pain!'' 
Well!  Cheer  up!  O  mine  old  heart:  Woe  saith:  ''Hence I 
Gor 

10. 

Ye  higher  men,  what  think  ye?  Am  I  a  soothsayer? 
Or  a  dreamer?  Or  a  drunkard?  Or  a  dream-reader?  Or 
a  midnight-bdl? 

Or  a  drop  of  dew?  Or  a  fume  and  fragrance  of  eternity? 
Hear  ye  it  not?  Smell  ye  it  not?  Just  now  hath  my  world 
become  perfect,  midnight  is  also  mid-day, — 

Pain  is  also  a  joy,  curse  is  also  a  blessing,  night  is  also  a 
sun, — ^go  away!  or  ye  will  learn  that  a  sage  is  also  a  fool. 

Said  ye  ever  Yea  to  one  joy?  O  my  friends,  then  said  ye 
Yea  also  unto  all  woe.  All  things  are  enlinked,  enlaced  and 
enamoured, — 


—Wanted  ye  ever  once  to  come  twice;  said  ye  ever: 
"Thou  pleasest  me,  happmess!  Instant!  Moment!'*  then 
wanted  ye  all  to  come  back  again!  • 

—All  anew,  all  eternal,  all  enlinked,  enlaced  and  enam- 
oured. Oh,  then  did  ye  love  the  world,—  ^ 

—Ye  eternal  ones,  ye  love  it  eternally  and  for  all  üme: 
and  also  unto  woe  do  ye  say:  Hence!  Go!  but  come  back! 
For  joys  all  want — eternity  t 


II. 

All  joy  wanteth  the  eternity  of  all  things,  it  wanteth 
honey,  it  wanteth  lees,  it  wanteth  drunken  midnight,  it 
wanteth  graves,  it  wanteth  grave-tears'  consolation,  it  want- 
eth gilded  evening-red —  .      ,_       .      i. 

—What  doth  not  joy  want!  it  is  thirsUer,  hearüer,  hun- 
grier, more  frightful,  more  mysterious,  than  all  woe:  it 
wanteth  itself,  it  biteth  into  Uself,  the  ring's  will  writheth 

—It  wanteth  love,  it  wanteth  hate,  it  is  over-rich,  it  be- 
stoweth,  it  throweth  away,  it  beggeth  for  some  one  to  take 
from  it,  it  thanketh  the  taker,  it  would  fain  be  hated,— 

—So  rich  is  joy  that  it  thirsteth  for  woe,  for  hell,  for 
hate,  for  shame,  for  the  lame,  for  the  world,— iox  this  world, 
Oh,  ye  know  it  indeed!  ,  . 

Ye  higher  men,  for  you  doth  it  long,  this  joy,  this  irre- 
pressible, blessed  joy— for  your  woe,  ye  failures  1  For  fail- 
ures, longeth  all  eternal  joy. 

For  joys  all  want  themselves,  therefore  do  they  also  want 
grief!  O  happiness,  O  pain!  Oh  break,  thou  heart!  Ye 
higher  men,  do  learn  it,  that  joys  want  eternity, 

—Joys  want  the  eternity  of  all  things,  they  want  deep, 
profound  eternity  I 

12. 

Have  ye  now  learned  my  song?  Have  ye  divined  what 
it  would  say?  Well!  Cheer  up!  Ye  higher  men,  smg  now 
my  roundday! 


/ 


322 


JHUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 


Sing  now  yourselves  the  song,  the  name  of  which  is  "Once 
inore,"  the  signification  of  which  is  "Unto  all  eternity!"-— 
sing,  ye  higher  men,  Zarathustra's  roundelay! 

O  man!    Take  heedt 

What  saith  deep  midnight's  voice  indeed? 

I  slept  my  sleep — , 

From  deepest  dream  I've  woke,  and  pleadi-^^ 
**The  world  is  deep, 

And  deeper  than  the  day  could  read. 

Deep  is  its  woe — , 

Joy — deeper  still  than  grief  can  be: 
*'Woe  saith:    Hence!    Go! 
*^But  joys  all  want  eternity — , 
** — Want  deep,  profound  eternity!'* 


i( 


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u 


LXXX.— THE   SIGN 

In  the  morning,  however,  after  this  night,  Zarathustra 
jumped  up  from  his  couch,  and,  having  girded  his  loins,  he 
came  out  of  his  cave  glowing  and  strong,  like  a  morning  sun 
coming  out  of  gloomy  mountains. 

"Thou  great  star,"  spake  he,  as  he  had  spoken  once  be- 
fore, "thou  deep  eye  of  happiness,  what  would  be  all  th}- 
happiness  if  thou  hadst  not  those  for  whom  thou  shinest! 

Arid  if  they  remained  in  their  chambers  whilst  thou  art 
already  awake,  and  comest  and  bestowest  and  distributest, 
how  would  thy  proud  modesty  upbraid  for  it! 

Well!  they  still  sleep,  these  higher  men,  whilst  /  am 
awake:  they  are  not  my  proper  companions!  Not  for  them 
do  I  wait  here  in  my  mountains. 

At  my  work  I  want  to  be,  at  my  day:  but  they  under- 
stand not  what  are  the  signs  of  my  morning,  my  step — is 
not  for  them  the  awakening-call. 

They  still  sleep  in  my  cave;  their  dream  still  drinketh  at 
my  drunken  songs.  The  andient  ear  for  me — the  obedient 
ear,  is  yet  lacking  in  their  limbs." 

' — This  had  Zarathustra  spoken  to  his  heart  when  the  sun 
arose:  then  looked  he  inquiringly  aloft,  for  he  heard  above 


LXXX— THE  SIGN 


323 


him  the  sharp  call  of  his  eagle.  "Well! "  called  he  upwards, 
"thus  is  it  pleasing  and  proper  to  me.  Mine  animals  are 
awake,  for  I  am  awake. 

Mine  eagle  is  awake,  and  like  me  honoureth  the  sun. 
With  eagle-talons  doth  it  grasp  at  the  new  light  Ye  are 
my  proper  animals;  I  love  you. 

But  still  do  I  lack  my  proper  men!" — 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra;  then,  however,  it  happened 
that  all  on  a  sudden  he  became  aware  that  he  was  flocked 
around  and  fluttered  around,  as  if  by  innumerable  birds, — 
the  whizzing  of  so  many  wings,  however,  and  the  crowding 
around  his  head  was  so  great  that  he  shut  his  eyes.  And 
verily,  there  came  down  upon  him  as  it  were  a  cloud,  like 
a  cloud  of  arrows  which  poureth  upon  a  new  enemy.  But 
behold,  here  it  was  a  cloud  of  love,  and  showered  upon  a 
new  friend. 

"What  happeneth  unto  me,"  thought  Zarathustra  in  his 
astonished  heart,  and  slowly  seated  himself  on  the  big  stone 
which  lay  close  to  the  exit  from  his  cave.  But  while  he 
grasped  about  with  his  hands,  around  him,  above  him  and 
below  him,  and  repelled  the  tender  birds,  behold,  there  then 
happened  to  him  something  still  stranger:  for  he  graspned 
thereby  unawares  into  a  mass  of  thick,  warm,  shaggy  hair; 
at  the  same  time,  however,  there  sounded  before  him  a  roar, 
— a  long,  soft  lion-roar. 

''The  sign  cometh,"  said  Zarathustra,  and  a  change  came 
over  his  heart.  And  in  truth,  when  it  turned  clear  before 
him,  there  lay  a  yellow,  powerful  animal  at  his  feet,  resting 
its  head  on  his  knee, — ^unwilling  to  leave  him  out  of  love, 
and  doing  like  a  dog  which  again  findeth  its  old  master. 
The  doves,  however,  were  no  less  eager  with  their  love  than 
the  lion;  and  whenever  a  dove  whisked  over  its  nose,  the 
lion  shook  its  head  and  wondered  and  laughed. 

When  all  this  went  on  Zarathustra  spake  only  a  word: 
''My  children  are  nigh,  my  children" — ,  then  he  became 
quite  mute.  His  heart,  however,  was  loosed,  and  from  his 
eyes  there  dropped  down  tears  and  fell  upon  his  hands. 
And  he  took  no  further  notice  of  anything,  but  sat  there 
motionless,  without  repelling  the  animals  further.     Then 


3^ 


THUS  SPAKE  ZARATHUSTRA,  IV 


LXXX— THE  SIGN 


3^5 


flew  the  doves  to  and  fro,  and  perched  on  his  shoulder,  and 
caressed  his  white  hair,  and  did  not  tire  of  their  tenderness 
and  joyousness.  The  strong  lion,  however,  licked  always 
the  tears  that  fell  on  Zarathustra's  hands,  and  roared  and 
growled  shyly.    Thus  did  these  animals  do. — 

All  this  went  on  for  a  long  time,  or  a  short  time:  for 
properly  speaking,  there  is  no  time  on  earth  for  such 
things—.  Meanwhile,  however,  the  higher  men  had  awak- 
ened in  Zarathustra's  cave,  and  marshalled  themselves  for 
a  procession  to  go  to  meet  Zarathustra,  and  give  him  their 
morning  greeting:  for  they  had  found  when  they  awakened 
that  he  no  longer  tarried  with  them.  When,  however,  they 
reached  the  door  of  the  cave  and  the  noise  of  their  steps 
had  preceded  them,  the  lion  started  violently;  it  turned 
away  all  at  once  from  Zarathustra,  and  roaring  wildly, 
sprang  towards  the  cave.  The  higher  men,  however,  when 
they  heard  the  lion  roaring,  cried  all  aloud  as  with  one 
voice,  fled  back  and  vanished  in  an  instant. 

Zarathustra  himself,  however,  stunned  and  strange,  rose 
from  his  seat,  looked  around  him,  stood  there  astonished, 
inquired  of  his  heart,  bethought  himself,  and  remained 
alone.  "What  did  I  hear?"  said  he  at  last,  slowly,  "what 
happened  unto  me  just  now?" 

But  soon  there  came  to  him  his  recollection,  and  he  took 
in  at  a  glance  all  that  had  taken  place  between  yesterday 
and  to-day.  "Here  is  indeed  the  stone,"  said  he,  and 
stroked  his  beard,  "on  it  sat  I  yester-mom;  and  here  came 
the  soothsayer  unto  me,  and  here  heard  I  first  the  cry 
which  I  heard  just  now,  the  great  cry  of  distress. 

O  ye  higher  men,  your  distress  was  it  that  the  old  sooth- 
sayer foretold  to  me  yester-mom, — 

—Unto  your  distress  did  he  want  to  seduce  and  tempt 
me:    'O  Zarathustra,'  said  he  to  me,  *I  come  to  seduce  thee 

to  thy  last  sin.' 

To  my  last  sin?"  cried  Zarathustra,  and  laughed  angnly 
at  his  own  words:  ''what  hath  been  reserved  for  me  as  my 

last  sin?"  ,      i.   .  .    i.. 

—And  once  more  Zarathustra  became  absorbed  in  him- 
self, and  sat  down  again  on  the  big  stone  and  meditated. 
Suddenly  he  sprang  up,— 


''Fellovhsuffermg/  Fettow-suffering  with  the  higher 
men/"  he  cried  out,  and  his  countenance  changed  into  brass« 
"Well!    TAfl/— hath  had  its  time! 

My  suffering  and  my  fellow-suffering— what  matter  about 
theml  Do  I  then  strive  after  happiness?  I  strive  after  my 
work/ 

Weill  The  lion  hath  come,  my  children  are  nigh,  Zara* 
thustra  hath  grown  ripe,  mine  hour  hath  come: — 

This  is  my  morning,  my  day  beginneth:  arise  now,  arise, 
thou  great  noontide/" 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra  and  left  his  cave,  glowing  and 
strong,  like  a  morning  sun  coming  out  of  gloomy  mountains. 


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